


Unsteady

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: No More Heroes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Court Case, Disability, Family, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Law, M/M, Medical, No More Heroes follow-on, Paraplegia, SCI, Sherlock is so broken, complete sci, complete spinal cord injury, disabled, h/c, paraplegic, spinal cord injury, wheelchair user
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: No More Heroes follow-upThe road they're travelling down is paved with horrors, ill health and memories they'd rather put to bed, but they remain stoic despite being unsteady as both John and Sherlock face up to the cohorts of Jack Skinner in the long-awaited court cases against them.





	1. Chapter 1

  
**I know you’re trying to fight when you feel like flying  
** **But if you love me, don’t let go  
Hold, hold on, hold on to me  
Cause I’m a little unsteady, a little unsteady. **

 

**\- - - - TWO WEEKS UNTIL THE COURT DATE - - - -**

 

“Morning,” John smiled as he spoke, finally giving himself away.

He’d been standing in the doorway into the kitchen for the last five minutes and Sherlock hadn’t even noticed. Not that he’d wanted him to. He’d been enjoying the sight he was greeted with too much to want to interrupt it. Sherlock was fresh from the shower and dressed, his hair still sitting in damp spirals, and he was busying himself making breakfast. It had been weeks since either Sherlock or himself had felt like moving from their bed, since Mycroft had given them the news that the court dates had been set and the trials of Jack Skinner’s men would be beginning as of March 3rd. But seeing that Sherlock had taken it upon himself to start said new routine had warmed John’s heart, and had made John able to almost push the memories of the months past aside for long enough to feel happiness grow warm and soothing in the pit of his stomach for long enough to overtake the fear that had been nestled there since Sherlock had been shot. 

Sherlock peered over his shoulder and offered a sleepy but wholly sincere smile. “Morning,” he replied. He placed the two mugs he’d been fishing for onto the counter and reached down to turn the chair. John took a few steps into the room as Sherlock manoeuvred closer to him, and they met in the middle of the large kitchen. “Did I wake you, was I too noisy?” he asked, frowning up at John. 

“Not at all,” John shook his head, dismissing him, and bent slightly at the waist to meet Sherlock face to face to kiss him gently. “And even if you had,” he said as he straightened, “this is a great way to be woken up. You look good today.” 

Sherlock smiled, “You do, too.” He said sincerely. “Still feeling weak?” 

John shook his head, “Not even half as bad.” He smiled, genuinely glad he was able to say he was feeling okay and not have it be a lie, or an exaggeration. He really did feel a lot better. The scarring from his surgery was looking good, his breathlessness had decreased and his medication ensured his heart remained healthy. The prognosis was good. “How’s your back?” 

Sherlock twisted his face and screwed up his nose momentarily before shaking his head, “It isn’t as bad.” He said. John didn’t know if it were a half-truth or not, but he was good at reading Sherlock’s pain faces by now and he could definitely tell that there was some easing in the tension, if not a complete eradication of pain. 

Sherlock twisted the rear wheels of his chair and turned back to the counter. The kettle had boiled as he’d moved to meet John, and he flicked it on again to ensure their coffee was as hot as possible. Cold coffee didn’t go down too well with Sherlock, as John knew well, and he smiled as he watched Sherlock’s long fingers flick the red button down on the kettle. John reached over the sink to the drainer and extracted two side plates - he wasn’t sure when they’d been washed and left there, but he figured they’d do for the toast that Sherlock was waiting on in the toaster. 

“Mycroft called,” Sherlock said into the quiet, and John peered up at him. 

“Hmm?” 

Sherlock scratched the fingers of his right hand into his hair just above his ear and shrugged his shoulders. “At about eight. He’d been in touch with Lestrade’s wife, wanted to let me know that she and kids were grateful for the flowers and cards we sent up to Weston.” 

John raised his eyebrows and somehow looked sad and emotionally moved in a positive way, at the same time. “Nice of her to call him,” John said quietly. 

Sherlock nodded strongly. “I wouldn’t have thought she’d want to be in touch with him, or any of us, at all. I got the father of her children killed…” 

“Sherlock, don’t do that.” John frowned and moved around the island, placing himself at Sherlock’s side. “Don’t lay that blame at your feet again. We’ve been through this so many times, Love, you didn’t cause Greg’s death.” He crouched, something he often reminded himself not to do so as not to give Sherlock the impression he was belittling him, and placed his left hand onto Sherlock’s left thigh. “We’re supposed to be moving on, moving forward, and we can’t do that if you don’t learn to give yourself a break once in awhile.” 

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes as he spoke and nodded his head, digging his tongue into the inside of his cheek as he tried not to allow his eyes to well with tears. “I know,” he said as John stood tall again. 

John watched him a moment, frowning at the small wince he gave, before he patted his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he moved away, “C’mon, take that toast out or we’ll be eating charcoal with our coffee.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Stop laughing,” John’s raised eyebrows and smile belied his semi-serious tone as he tried to scold Sherlock.

Had anyone walked into the lounge they’d have been confused as to the scene they were greeted with, with both men on the floor of the lounge, furniture pushed aside, with yoga mats beneath them lined over with the double quilt from the spare bedroom. Sherlock lay on his back with John between his legs. Sherlock’s left leg lay extended atop the quilt whilst John manipulated his right leg, bending the knee and pushing Sherlock’s thigh in, creating a perfect right angle with the limb. These exercises had been going on for over a week now, but it was only in the last two days that John had started doing them himself; the task had previously been performed by Nora, the physiotherapist that Mycroft had hired. John had been keen to be involved almost as much as Sherlock had been keen to get rid of Nora for the sheer mortification of having a woman constantly handling him when human contact was just too much. Now that John was feeling stronger, and the two were finding normality again, John had turned Nora away in favour of performing the hour-long sessions twice a day with Sherlock himself. 

Sherlock kept his left hand on his flat tummy, that vibrated as he giggled, whilst his right hand covered his face in mild embarrassment. 

John chuckled and shook his head. “Stop it, Sherlock. Serious business is going on here.” 

Sherlock let out another loud giggle and John gave up, dropping Sherlock’s leg back down as he laughed loudly himself. “If we’re not going to be able to do this, Nora’ll have to come back.” He warned, laughing still, and Sherlock swatted him with his right hand in disgust. “At least if you’re giggling I can take it as a sign that the manipulations aren’t hurting your back.” John supposed as he unfolded his legs from beneath his bottom and crossed them. 

“They’re not,” Sherlock confirmed, sobering up. “Is it too much for you?” He asked, almost as an afterthought but not one made lightly. 

“Of course not,” John shook his head, and peered down to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Honestly, Love, it if was I would say.” He smiled. “Think you can hold off laughing for long enough for me to work your left leg?” 

Sherlock smirked and shook his head, “No.” He laughed. 

“Well you can’t just lie on the floor for the rest of the day; are you ready to get up?” John asked, pushing himself up onto his knees. “I’ll get the Mangar if you are.” 

Sherlock placed his hands down beside his hips and pushed into the quilt, slowly but strongly lifting his upper body at a gentle curve. “No…” he sighed and smiled, “Come on; let’s do this because the nephrologist will only come back with whatever calcium levels in my kidney...whatever if we don’t.” he mocked a hoity-toity voice, one John knew to be a tease of the urology and nephrology consultants Sherlock saw regularly. 

“It’s not a ‘whatever’, Sherlock.” John said seriously as Sherlock eased his back back onto the mat slowly. “Kidney stones are not something you want to be stuck with, not with one over-worked kidney and a compromised urinary tract.” 

Sherlock nodded, “I know, John.” He placed his left hand gently on his abdomen again and cushioned his right beneath his curls. “Wait a minute, though…” he said, crinkling his nose. He eased his t-shirt up and exposed his tummy. 

John peered at Sherlock’s naval and smiled suggestively, “Eh up!” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “No,” he shook his head, but smiled lightly. “Check the insertion site for me? I think I might have to get the DN to swap it out...it was red around it in the shower this morning.” 

John shuffled closer to Sherlock’s middle and frowned down at the insertion site of the supra-pubic catheter. “Why didn’t you say this morning, I could have called the nurses earlier?” He asked, poking gently at Sherlock’s belly button and down around the entry site. “It’s a bit red, and there’s a little discharge. How’s your urine?” 

Sherlock felt his skin prickle with goosebumps up both of his arms as John’s fingers ghost in skin in areas he could still feel perfectly. “Dark…” he said quietly. Inasmuch as he’d adapted to life as it was, adjusting, still, was hard. His bodily functions being discussed was still embarrassing and appalling to Sherlock, as was the ability for them to be seen by anyone who wanted to look. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that one of the foremost topics of conversation between he, his lover, and his brother, would be the health and appearance of his urine and inner workings of his urinary system. 

“Any abdominal pressure?” John asked, gently pressing in against Sherlock’s stomach in the low region of his bladder. He frowned, able to feel swelling where he’d expect to feel emptiness due to the catheter in situ acting as a constant drain on the bladder. “Sherlock?” He provoked when Sherlock didn’t respond. Sherlock hummed at him and John peered up from his examination to look into Sherlock’s face. “Any pressure in your abdomen?” 

“Bit,” Sherlock nodded, looking and sounding small and innocent. 

“How much did you empty out of your night bag this morning?” John asked, looking back down at his hands, still pushing lightly on Sherlock’s tummy. 

“Four fifty,” Sherlock replied. 

“Over the whole night?” John asked, and watched Sherlock nod. “You’re retaining a little, but there’s urine in the tube…” he said and moved his right hand down Sherlock’s right leg to find the catheter bag strapped to his calf. He lifted the loose leg of Sherlock’s trousers and looked at the bag clearly. The bag held a maximum of five hundred millilitres of urine and was currently holding just over one hundred. “...bit dark, you said?” John looked up at Sherlock. “Love, it looks like black tea!” He grimaced. “I can get the nurses out to change it but one, they won’t because by the look of that you’ve got another infection and you know as well as I do they won’t change it while there’s active infection, and two, you need to start drinking clear fluids and flushing it out.” He pushed down the leg of Sherlock’s trousers and then pulled his t-shirt back down to the waistband. “I’ll call the surgery, request an acute course of Nitro.” He patted his hand lightly on Sherlock’s hip. 

“It’s a bloody itch-scratch cycle,” Sherlock groaned and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He stared up as John got to his feet and looked down at him. “It clears, and then comes back, and then clears, and then comes back…” he tutted. 

“If you kept your fluids up, it’d help.” John reasoned. “You average four cups of tea a day; you only ever drink water if I force it into you, or if you’ve got an infection. Love, we keep going over this - you need to maintain good UT health or that kidney is going to shut down and you’ll be hooked up to dialysis… Renal failure when you’re finally getting your posture and muscle strength in order is not something you should be aspiring to.” 

“I’m not,” Sherlock snapped. 

“Grump,” John simply retorted. “I’ll get the Mangar and get you up; you can start knocking back the water and I’ll call the surgery.” 

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll drink eight pints of water if it makes you happy, but let’s do this first please?” 

“Why the sudden spur to be so rigorous with therapy? You hated Nora…” John said, groaning as his knees protested his action of crouching, then kneeling back down beside Sherlock on the floor. 

Sherlock propped himself back up on his hands, “I was reading something…” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed, “Love, look, I know there are people out there who’ve regained movement and it’s great and wonderful, but it’s a one in a million…” 

“Shut up,” Sherlock tutted at him. “I’m not stupid, I know I can’t ever walk again, so don’t patronise me. It was about avoiding a spinal fuse.” 

John raised his eyebrows. “You’ve decided you don’t want a fuse?” He asked, a little confused. “I mean, if you don’t then you don’t, but we never really even talked about it - but if you’ve been looking into it, I don’t know, I kind of supposed that maybe you’d talk to me about it, we’d discuss it, the pros and cons…” 

“John, shut up.” Sherlock raised his voice. “A minute, please.” He shook his head and sighed. “The pains I get in my back are unreal, but I can twist, I can rotate my back and work the muscles and it helps, even if it’s only a little bit. What if the spinal fuse means I can’t get the movement to loosen the muscles that I can get now. I’m not stupid, I know it’s a fixation in a specific area and it’s not a muscular thing… but what if there’s more nerve damage from the surgery? Being T12 L1 is bad enough; if there’s damage from the surgery and the loss of feeling rises...then what? I’m just getting used to dragging my arse in the most literal way I ever have, I don’t want that to spread higher - I don’t want to not be able to feel that abdominal pressure. I’m learning to read what I’ve got to work with, John, I don’t think I can handle having to relearn that, or not having any physical symptoms I can privately recognise if my bladder and kidney isn’t working right.” 

John inhaled deeply, unable to fault Sherlock’s reasons for the decision he seemed to have already come to. He couldn’t imagine being in no way able to read his body, not knowing if he needed to pee, not being able to physically prepare for intimacy. Sherlock was slowly regaining signals, slowly learning what new signals meant, and he could completely appreciate his apprehension. John licked his lips and nodded his head slowly. “You’ve clearly considered it carefully.” 

“I haven’t, not properly, I’m just trying to think of ways to avoid it if it can be avoided. I know it’ll happen sooner or later, I can’t stay like I am, with the temporary hold that’s in there, I get that and I understand the implications of not having the surgery, too.” Sherlock gave a heavy sigh, “I just don’t want to lose anything else.” 

John shuffled forwards and cupped his left hand behind Sherlock’s head, holding him steady so he could push his lips firmly against the creases on his forehead. “I understand,” he promised. He released his hold on Sherlock’s head and steeled himself. “Okay then… lie back, think of England.” 

Sherlock grinned, “You’re an idiot.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Excellent Sherlock, really good…” John praised, crouched behind Sherlock with his hands low on his hips as Sherlock balanced on the yoga ball. “You’re holding your weight so well, Love, this is great.” 

Sherlock gave a small grunt, “It’s starting to hurt…” he exhaled. 

John pushed up on his knees and ensured he was directly behind Sherlock. “Okay, alright...rest a bit, I’m right behind you.” He assured, and immediately felt Sherlock settle his full weight into his chest. “I said a bit, you git.” John smirked and prodded his left index finger into Sherlock’s ribcage. “One minute rest, then you need to fully support yourself again. You’re doing really well.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’ve had enough,” he huffed. 

“Oh, come on Love. Just another minute upright, then we’ll call it quits.” John coaxed gently. 

“I can’t,” Sherlock squirmed his shoulders, hoping for relief. “I want to stop.”

“No.” Mycroft insisted. He was standing at the walkway into the lounge, leaning against the right archway beam with his right foot crossed over his left. “Keep going. You can do it, Sherlock, you have proved that with sitting upright on the edge of your bed, with transferring. You can do it this. You _have_ to do this.” 

“It hurts,” Sherlock hissed at him with gritted teeth, his back feeling too tense. Sweat was beading on his forehead beneath the smattering of curls that kept slipping forwards. “It’s hurting my stomach.” 

“Pressure again?” John asked, carefully slipping his hand around Sherlock’s waist and absently pressing his hand in against the taller man’s abdomen without asking his permission first, as Mycroft looked on. Sherlock nodded his head and arched his back in a little as John applied pressure to his lower stomach. “This bloody catheter…” John cursed and tutted, drawing his hand back from Sherlock’s stomach to hold firmly on his hip. “Bring his chair over,” He looked up at Mycroft. “He’s not bowing out, Mycroft, his bladder’s spasming and he’s already struggling today.” 

Mycroft straightened and reached for Sherlock’s chair, bringing it in line with the yoga ball as John awkwardly rose to his feet whilst keeping Sherlock supported with his body. “What’s going on?” 

“His bladder is fucked, Mycroft, you know that - it doesn’t contract to empty, this you also know, hence the catheter. He has a kidney infection at the minute and his urine production is shot to bits; his bladder is spasming against the catheter, holding back what urine he is producing and it causes the pressure. So when he’s sitting and his bladder isn’t voiding, it’s the same as you and me sitting on a full bladder. He has all the discomfort of needing a piss without it having any way of being relieved. So when he says he’s in pain, I believe him.” He kept his legs behind Sherlock, taking his weight. “Help me lift him and I’ll try a wash out, see if that removes any sediment caused by the infection and helps the catheter flow at all.” 

Mycroft offered John a contrite expression at the dressing down he’d delivered him, but helped to ease Sherlock up and into his wheelchair. He couldn’t deny the look of relief on his brother’s face when he could relax his back against the chair back. “Are you taking the prophylaxis?” He asked, eyes firmly fixed on Sherlock’s twisting face. 

“Of course I am,” Sherlock snapped at him roughly. 

“Then how have you contracted yet another infection? Don’t you realise how precarious your health is already?” Mycroft scolded. 

“He has a foreign object inserted into his body through an open dissection; it’s a tightrope walk for bacteria, of course he’s going to contract them. It’s going to happen!” John tutted, “And it’s the first since he came out of hospital, so lay off him alright? It isn’t as though he’s poking the bloody thing with a petri dish!” He shook his head. “Make yourself useful? Go to the pharmacy and pick up the antibiotics - the surgery said they’d fax it over and it’d be ready by one…” John glanced at his watch. “It’s half past. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll make lunch when you’re back.” 

Sherlock smirked despite his discomfort at the look of pure incredulation on Mycroft’s face that John dared tell him what to do. “Please, Mycroft.” Sherlock set his eyes on his brother.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Many thanks, John.” Mycroft set his knife and fork down onto his almost cleared plate. He’d been impressed, in fact, with John’s culinary skills and had very much enjoyed the Caesar salad he’d thrown together with Sherlock’s help. They remained seated at the dining table, mostly because Sherlock was still picking his way through his food, but more out of the quiet comfort of just being able to relax. 

“You’re welcome; not bad even if I do say so myself.” John smirked, lifting his glass of water. “Sherlock, just eat the bloody salad…” John moaned, “It’s lettuce and chicken, there’s hardly anything to it. You need to line your stomach with your meds.” Sherlock pulled a face as he skewered a piece of chicken on his end of fork. He shoved it into his mouth, dragging his teeth down the fork because he knew how much it bothered his brother, and looked at John with a petulant face. “I suppose I’ll ask, seeing as one of us needs to at some point.” John cleared his throat and set down his glass. “Have the court agreed to running with our proposal of a posthumous sentence for Skinner?” 

Sherlock turned his head slowly to Mycroft, waiting impatiently for the answer. Mycroft licked his bottom lip, “Nothing has been agreed as yet, but there is still time,” he insisted quickly as John went to protest. “It’s two weeks until the scheduled date - it could be pushed back, they often are.” 

“It could also be brought forwards,” Sherlock pointed out. “We all know court dates are random.” He set his cutlery down. “You promised you’d fight this through - that bastard deserves to be served what he’s owed, regardless of whether or not he’s alive to see it. His name needs to be dragged through the mud for everything he did.” 

John squirmed at Sherlock’s passionate rant, mostly because it hurt him to hear Sherlock so enraged. 

“I share the same opinion, Sherlock, but you know as well as I do that it isn’t as simple as that.” Mycroft held out his hands to his brother in a vain attempt to placate his temper. “There are procedures, laws to abide by…” 

“You’re practically the official line on law, Mycroft, I don’t see why you can’t twist the arms of those you need to twist!” Sherlock spouted, his brow furrowed deeply in anger. John had become so accustomed to those particular wrinkles that he was often surprised when he didn’t see them. “It’s bad enough every one of them standing trial have no slurs against them of any real merit. They’re all being charged with accessory crimes, nothing that reflects what they were involved in. Why aren’t you pushing for this? Lestrade is dead because of that bastard, because of all of them, and you’re sitting back and letting them walk away scot free.” 

Mycroft glared at his brother, “I’m not sitting back, Sherlock, but my hands are tied. There is only so much I can do - your ideas that my job is of more worth than it is are falling drastically short right now. If there was anything more I could do that would secure what we want, I would be doing it. All I can do is push what we are already doing - for the posthumous sentencing. And at the end of the day, all that does is give us some semblance of closure; it accounts for nothing when the man is dead.” 

Sherlock huffed a mirthless laugh through his nose. “It accounts for Greg, you arsehole.” Sherlock spat at him and threw down his arms, he reached for the rear wheels of his chair and drew himself away from the table. 

“Lock…” John called to him, but Sherlock remained determined in escaping and moved quickly toward the lounge. John sighed, closing his eyes as he shook his head, and sat back in his chair. He drew his eyes open and looked at Mycroft. “For a posh git who grew up with that particular sensitive little sod,” he thrust his hand toward the lounge, “You really don’t know how to mind how you phrase your words.” 

“What more can I do, John?” Mycroft begged of him. “All of my reaches have been exhausted. All I can do is the same as you and Sherlock - wait and see.” 

John got to his feet, shaking his head in anger. “You’ve never waited to see how things pan out in your life, Mycroft. You get involved, you manipulate and you make it suit you, you make it work in your favour. I really don’t understand why you’re not doing it now.” He paused at the archway that led into the hallway. “He’s right,” he thumbed over his shoulder to Sherlock. “You’re an arsehole.” 

Mycroft sat back in his seat and allowed them their defeat. He wished he could prove to them that he was working in all of his outstanding favours to try and get what they wanted, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He knew John and Sherlock’s minds would not be sated until they got the sentencing they wanted - _needed_. He’d tried all avenues he could; he’d tried to get more harsh charges brought down on Skinner’s accomplices and it had got him nowhere. He felt like every corner he took led him into another roadblock that was harder than the last to scale. 

“You okay, Love?” John lingered in the walkway as Sherlock sat staring at the muted television. He walked in closer and placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Why doesn’t he seem to give a shit?” Sherlock peered over his shoulder at John. “He’s not being himself - six months ago, Mycroft would have chased any thread he could to get some random dickhead prosecuted for anything minor and now he has the chance to set a real precedent for somebody who is owed it and he won’t do it. Why isn’t he doing anything!?” He stiffened his jaw. “Those pricks deserve to be on accomplice to murder charges and they’re not - if we can’t get anywhere with the posthumous charge for Skinner, why isn’t he trying to tighten the belt on those three bastards?” 

John didn’t know what to say - he completely agreed with Sherlock, and he had no answered to the questions he had. “Maybe he knows what he’s doing?” He tried to reason, ever the mediator. 

“Bollocks!” Sherlock snapped. He whipped his chair around and charged back toward his brother, with John walking steadily behind him. “You could be doing so much to something, _anything_ to make this sting a little less and you’re not. Why are you even here right now? Why aren’t you the court, with lawyers, at the station - why aren’t we bringing Dimmock up on kidnapping and assault, accessory to murder? Why is that bastard still parading around London when Greg’s buried beneath it!?” 

John frowned, “What?” Mycroft looked between them both and, when he opened his mouth to speak, was quickly silenced by John waving his hand at him. “Dimmock isn’t one of the three on trial...and you knew?” He looked at the back of Sherlock’s head, then at Mycroft. “Will one of you explain to me what the hell is going on here?” 

“He bargained - a week ago. Informant, like the letch he is. Mycroft assured me he’d be pulled up on accessory to murder off the back of it but that’s not happening.” Sherlock growled. “Tell me again how you’re doing everything you can?” 

“How can he walk away without any charge at all?” John shook his head, holding out his arms at his sides in pure incredulity. “Mycroft, he kidnapped Sally Donovan, and held her here with Sherlock and your bloody secretary. He punched Sherlock in the face, that’s assault… How is he walking free? What the hell has happened that he is deemed innocent?” 

“He isn’t innocent.” Mycroft snapped, finally. “And he isn’t free, Sherlock.” He turned his eyes on his brother. “It’s… devil's advocate.” 

“Because that worked twatting wonders for Greg and Sally with Jack, didn’t it?” John snorted. “Whatever that prick did to get himself off, you need to reverse. He needs locking up, Mycroft, what about this is skating over your head? He filmed what happened to us - he showed a video of me being shot in the chest to your little brother, and beat him up in the meantime. What the hell is wrong with you - react, you...robot!” John’s anger was insurmountable and Sherlock didn’t know whether to watch him for fear he may hit Mycroft, or study Mycroft to see how he’d react. 

Mycroft quietly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Do not think, for a single moment, that there is anything I would not do to ensure the safety of my brother.” He spoke in a deathly calm voice, low and serious, and Sherlock’s shoulders tightened. He knew that voice. “If there is anything that I could change to take every last bit of these last few months away, or make even one small change to better things, don’t you think that I would have done it?” He looked squarely at John. 

“Could have fooled me,” John spat. “Look at him - take a good hard look at him. He’s pissing into a bag, when his body works enough to allow it, and he cannot move beyond his hips. Where’s any good moves you’ve taken to ensure his safety in the result you’ve got?” John thrust his hand at Sherlock. “In allowing that bastard off, you’ve ensured one thing - you never have and never will give one single _fuck_ about him.” 

“Stop it!” Sherlock shouted. “Stop - we’ve been here before, do you know that? Broken down and arguing amongst ourselves. Just stop it.” 

“How could you hold that for a whole week and tell me nothing, Sherlock?” John shoved his hand into the back of Sherlock’s head. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re still willing to behind my back and keep secrets from me. _After everything!_ I got shot in the chest because of your goddamned lies, Sherlock, and now we’re right back here again with you keeping vital information from me surrounding the people responsible for all of this. Where the hell do you get off, you arrogant tosser!?” 

“Don’t,” Mycroft stepped forward one stride, watching Sherlock rub his hand across the back of his head from John’s surprisingly forceful shove. “Nobody was supposed to know, not even Sherlock. He overheard me on the phone and confronted me about it - I told him not to tell you. Nobody outside of - outside of _those who needed to know_ were supposed to know what was happening. I’d have killed him if he told you.” He sighed, “I still might.” 

“What does it matter now? He thinks he’s home and dry and he’s going to do everything he can to make sure we know it.” Sherlock spoke up. “He’s the last bloody link to Mark, don’t you two understand that? It’s not just about him being free because he deserves to be hanged for Lestrade - it’s about what he’s going to do next.” He looked from Mycroft to John, each standing to the side of him. He turned back to Mycroft, and fixed his steely eyes on him firmly, pushing his best ‘little brother’ face. “He thinks he’s free, regardless of what is or isn’t the case. Jack’s dead, Mark… he’s a vengeful little bastard at the best of times, you know that. Why have you not preempted that he’s going to come here - he’s going to come for me because he thinks he can?” 

Mycroft inhaled deeply but somehow managed to maintain an outwardly poised image. “Good question, that,” John snapped. “Come on then, Mister Devil’s Advocate. How’re you going to move the earth to keep your little brother safe this time?”


	3. Chapter 3

John woke with a jump and inhaled deeply, heaving it out through rounded lips and tried to remind himself that it was a dream. They’d stopped for a while, but with the encroaching court hearings had begun to plague him again and given the afternoon he had had with Sherlock and Mycroft, he was surprised he’d been tormented tonight - he was more surprised he’d managed to sleep at all. He blinked in the darkness, able to see blue-tinged shadows through the streetlamp light filtering through the tops of the curtains at the bedroom window. He inhaled again, and let it out through his nose as he turned slowly onto his side, facing Sherlock. It was a comfort to see him sleeping, lips parted and pearly teeth visible below the curve of his Cupid’s bow. He was sleeping soundly, or so it looked, with his curly fringe across his forehead and his right hand up on the pillow beside his face while his left hand was resting limply on his stomach over the duvet. 

His mind was quickly erasing the clarity of the dream, but the feeling of pain throbbing in his chest felt as real as the day the bullets cut through his skin. He knew it was all mental; he knew the mind was an amazingly powerful thing, and not always in the positive, and that the less he focused on it the less power it would have. He kept his eyes on Sherlock’s slowly rising and falling chest, and the ever so slight snuffling snores that escaped his lips as a means to keep him grounded. Sherlock was good for so many things for John, and this was just another to add to the list. He wanted with every fibre of his being to reach out and touch him, hold him or grace his fingers along his skin, but the less selfish side of him didn’t want to break him from the sleep he needed. Sleep came less easily to them both when anything bothered them, and he knew dragging Sherlock awake simply because his mind was racing wasn’t fair, regardless of the fact that there was still so much he needed to talk to him about, and that if he was honest anger was still bubbling deep inside him, provoked once more by the dream. 

So he lay silent and still, thinking the ache in his chest away, watching Sherlock sleep. And before he knew it, his eyes were flickering open again as he felt the bed dipping. The light in the room hadn’t changed much, and John wasn’t sure if he’d dozed or been asleep for a while. He focused his eyes through his sleepiness and could see Sherlock pulling himself to sit up on the edge of the bed. John frowned and reached out, touching his hand to the small of Sherlock’s back where his pyjama t-shirt billowed out from his thin frame. “Are you alright, Love?” 

Sherlock startled at the voice and turned his head over his shoulder. “Just warm,” he said in a whisper. 

John propped himself up on his right elbow and rubbed his left hand into his eyes, trying to focus. “Do you want me to get you some water?” He asked, the last word elongated and muffled as he yawned. 

Sherlock shook his head, vibrating his mop-top hair. “I just want to get up.” 

John peered awkwardly behind him at the clock on the dressed; four twenty three greeted him in neon green. “It’s not even half four, Sherlock.” He said, turning back, able to make out Sherlock more clearly now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim room. 

“I don’t want to lie here anymore, John.” Sherlock snapped, a little louder than his whispered words of before, and his throat sounded scratchy with sleep. 

“Dreams?” John asked him, half hoping Sherlock would say yes and he wouldn’t feel so alone in his mental torture. But he felt sad when he heard Sherlock confirm. 

“...I keep seeing Lestrade die.” Sherlock whispered again, and gripped both hands tighter onto the edge of the mattress. It was hurting him to sit up, and he desperately wanted to lie back down and have John hold him, but his body was tingling with the remnants of his dream and he was scared he would be lulled into a false sense of security, fall asleep again, and be forced to experience it all over again. “It’s different every time; shot, stabbed, beheaded… I watched Skinner dismember him this time.” He said quietly, his words quiet and mumbled. 

John closed his eyes to the explanation and inhaled a deep breath through his nose. 

“I’m sorry - I know you’re not exactly sleeping soundly.” Sherlock said, sighing as if he were brushing it all away and packing it up - compartmentalising like he was good at; shutting it away for ‘another day’ that never seemed to arrive. 

“Jack, mostly.” John said bluntly. Sherlock bristled and John didn’t miss it. “It was strange - we were in a different place, like an abandoned school or something…” John rolled his eyes a little at the nonsense of it. “...but he shot Mycroft.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t move. Like, I wanted to move and take the gun off him, I think, but I was stuck on the spot and I couldn’t save your brother.” He sighed again and reached out to Sherlock with his hand again, touching his arm. “Please come back to bed.” 

“I’m uncomfortable,” Sherlock said in a grumble, and John knew that meant his back was paining him to a prolific level.

John frowned sadly. “Do you want me to get you a cuppa?” 

“I can make tea if I want tea,” Sherlock said, still whispering and still managing to sound sharp. He flexed his arms, stretching his upper spine out, and groaned as his body protested the movement. “Uh...ow…” He exhaled in a sob of annoyance and gritted his teeth through John’s name. “John…” Had John not known Sherlock was in pain he would have assumed the noise was orgasmic rather than negative. 

John pushed himself up onto his knees, and waddled awkwardly across the mattress until his body was behind Sherlock’s. He leaned in close and felt Sherlock relax against him the moment he was aware of his support. “Right at the base of your spine?” John asked quietly, and felt Sherlock’s hair brush against the underside of his chin as he nodded. “Want me to get that Tens machine thing?” He felt Sherlock’s hair move again, this time in the negative. “Then what can I do, Love?” 

“Push hard on the left side, above my hip…” he guided John and gave a groan of approval when John’s knuckles found the tender, cramping spot slightly north of Sherlock’s hip. John could feel the tenseness of the muscle and dug his knuckles in, offering a deep massage. “Um - yeah, ow…” Sherlock arched his back as much as he could. 

“It’s in real spasm,” John sympathised, keeping his hand digging into the muscle as hard as he could. “Is it helping any?” 

Sherlock nodded, “Bit…” he said, and it was audible that he was holding his breath in a brace against the pain. 

“Do you want me to get the diazepam?” John offered gently. 

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “I don’t want drugs all the time.” 

John flattened his mouth into a thin line, appreciating Sherlock’s need for sobriety and clarity, but not really admiring the martyr stance. “How’s the abdo pressure? Still there from yesterday?” 

“Bit,” Sherlock said, sounding a little less tense. “Eight hundred in the night bag.” 

John raised his eyebrows in appreciation. “That’s good - see, I told you all that water would help.” 

“Right as always...ah…” Sherlock conceded, but trailed off in a hiss as his back cramped viciously again. It took twenty minutes, and a couple of position changes, before John could feel Sherlock’s muscles begin to loosen their war and feel Sherlock himself unclench his body into something more akin to relaxation. 

The two gave up on achieving any more sleep, too far into wakefulness to feel like they could drift off easily enough. John helped Sherlock up into his chair using the banana board and waited in the bedroom while Sherlock emptied and switched out his catheter bags before heading down stairs. Neither bothered to shower and pull on clean clothes straight away, instead opting for slobbing into the kitchen and fuelling on coffee before they made any further decisions about the day ahead. It was a fair way off starting for most people, but John and Sherlock were already prepared for some kind of fight.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Yet the fact remains that this man is accountable for assault, threatening behaviour, abduction…” Mycroft’s voice hardened the more he spoke, his words becoming more clipped with each one he spat into the phone. “...I know what I said before but now I am saying this.” He yelled, “I want Lincoln Dimmock in custody, and I want you to do whatever it is you have to do to ensure that that is what happens. Is that clear? ...Good.” 

He slammed the phone down into the cradle and rested his head back onto the high back of the chair in his home office. He hadn’t slept a wink through the night and had, instead, spent seven and a half hours watching the security tapes that both surrounded and operated inside of Sherlock and John’s home, tracking their GPS to ensure they remained home, and listening to the sounds of the house through the microphone devices he had scattered around. He’d been surprised at how calm the house had been in his absence, despite the row that had erupted in the afternoon. His brother and John had been calm with one another, though Sherlock’s tone had been sharp at times, and normal family life had seemed to descend. He’d watched the live feed of video from the lounge at around eight pm with relief for his brother’s safety with John. He saw what it was to be normal, human, and envied his little brother. He watched John make a cup of tea, watched Sherlock eat a light dinner, heard John’s teasing, heard Sherlock laugh. He saw what it was to be a family with somebody you just plucked from the plethora of normal one day and it helped him to remember that he wasn’t the only person who was fighting to keep Sherlock safe. 

Mycroft rubbed his hands across his face and then gripped the armrests of his chair and got to his feet. He fastened his blazer button as he straightened up and reached to the table for his mobile phone. He slipped it into his pocket and walked around the desk, and as he went to walk away the telephone on his desk began to ring. He furrowed his brow, and turned back to answer it. He held the phone to his ear and spoke quietly. “Yes?” 

“Mikey, sweetheart…” 

“Mother, hello.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a nine am phone call?” 

“Oh, Mikey…” 

Mycroft’s brow creased deeper at the sound of crying suddenly filling the phone. “What is it?” 

“It’s been on the news - about Sherlock, about the court cases coming up. People are talking about it everywhere; Mister Banerjee at the newsagents even asked your Dad about it; it’s in the newspaper, too.” 

“What exactly was on the news?” Mycroft’s eyes widened. 

“That the court dates for the men involved with Sherlock’s accident, and the death of Inspector Lestrade, were approaching and defence attorneys were positive about the proceedings they were looking ahead to. There was a recording of Sherlock, a paparazzi video of he and John leaving the hospital where he has his renal care… The reporter was saying that there was no denying that there were people to blame but that the attorneys were saying that they hoped it was considered that the blameable was already dead. Perhaps she means Inspector Lestrade, too, I don’t know.” 

Mycroft felt his heartbeat quicken, “Anything else?” 

“Well, Mister Banerjee said he had heard that they would want you boys to testify. How strange, all the way down here? He said to Dad that he wondered if Dad and I would have to, too, considering we spoke with that Inspector…. Nobody has spoken to us since just after Christmas day, Mikey, surely we won’t be called to court? It’s too close - we won’t have time to prepare….” 

“You won’t be called,” Mycroft ensured her. “The cases aren’t about Jack Skinner - unfortunately.” 

“They did say something about serving the dead with sentencing was mentioned-,” 

“Oh?” Mycroft jumped across her, “What exactly did they say, Mother. And I mean _exactly_.” 

“It was a young Detective, he said that the injured parties were pushing for a far fetched idea that they might be able to...that they could endeavour to prosecute the dead. And he said that in court anything could happen but that you often have a sense of what is going to occur, and that holding the dead accountable would not stand up - I think…” 

Mycroft bristled - their entire lives were being mocked by the men being paid to defend the accused who Mycroft knew would never believe their clients were actually innocent, but had a job to do. “You know what the media is like, Mother.” He placated her. “Just mind that you and Dad do not talk to anyone about anything that happened; if you’re approached, Sherlock is doing well and John has recovered wonderfully. You cannot give anything away.” 

“I know that, Mikey, I am not entirely stupid. ....Can I come to see Sherlock? It’s been so long; I’ll just stay at the house a couple of days, before the court proceedings begin, just to see if he’s okay.” 

“I can’t stop you seeing him, Mother, but you and Dad will be dropped into the middle of everything and perhaps that isn’t wise.” Mycroft said, but felt a little guilty. “Come, if you must, but stay with me - not with Sherlock. He and John are busy with hospital appointments, physiotherapy - he spends most of his day lying on the floor having his body manipulated and his temper is short.” 

“Oh, sweetheart, thank you. I’ll speak with Dad and be in touch about the train times. I love you, Mikey.” 

“...yes, Mother, I know.” Mycroft pushed the phone back down in the cradle followed up his stoicism with pounding his flattened palm against his desk. 

He had been expecting media coverage - murder, kidnapping, life-changing injuries of Sherlock Holmes, it was bound to pick up press interest. But he had rather hoped that Sherlock and John’s need to find closure would not be mocked - but here it was, unfolding on national news before their very eyes. And he knew he had to tell Sherlock what was happening; if the man found out on his own that their life was a news story, Mycroft dreaded to think what would happen if he discovered that his big brother knew it was happening, too.


	4. Chapter 4

“I don’t understand what you find so bloody difficult about it?” John slammed the dishwasher door closed and pushed it it, allowing it to start its cycle. “...plates in the rack on the bottom, cups in the holder at the top. You’re at eye level with the bloody thing, you can see what you’re doing!” He was bothered, but his anger was teasing and Sherlock simply stared at him from beside the sink where he’d been handing him the dishes out to fill the washer. “I know this chair isn’t just for laziness and that your legs really and truly don’t work, but you hands and brain do and they know how to put dishes in a bloody dishwasher!” He stood before Sherlock placed his hands on his hips, fixing him with an angry schoolteacher glare before he broke it by laughing, knocked down by Sherlock pulling a stupid face. 

Sherlock reversed his chair back steadily and turned to leave the kitchen, “Did my brother tell you that the people he was in touch with finally got back to him about me getting mechanical stander?” He asked over his shoulder as John followed him out, leading into the dining room. 

“No,” John said with bright surprise. “So it’s sorted?” 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders when he had pushed himself in at the dining table where his laptop was open and waiting. “I don’t know if the physical thing is at Mycroft’s place, he didn’t say, but he said the t’s were crossed and i’s were dotted, and that the stander was mine. It’s coming from America.” 

John’s eyes lit up, “That’s amazing, Sherlock. You’re going to be able to do so much more independently. I’m assuming it’ll be ambulant?” John sunk down into the chair opposite Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded his head, “It’s basically an electric wheelchair that allows for a vertical stance.” He said with a shrug of one shoulder. He looked up from his computer and smiled at John. “I’ll be the tall one again.” 

John rolled his eyes and laughed quietly. “So all this therapy on your back, strengthening your back muscles and supporting yourself, is going to be even more important.” He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table top and raised his eyebrows in mock accusing at the man opposite. 

Sherlock poke his tongue out and then smiled, giving an agreeable nod. “I know; it is important, I do think it’s important. I said so yesterday…” 

“You do know if you’re planning to be standing more often, your spine will need to be supported with more than just strong muscles. The fixation might be completely necessary.” 

Sherlock drew his mouth to the left and nodded. “Yes, I know,” He said and then poked his tongue into the inside of his left cheek. He took a deep breath and clicked on the keys on his laptop, flicking his eyes quickly over the screen and then looked over the lid again at John. “I’m still getting emails.” 

“Emails?” John asked. 

“Cases.” 

John smiled sadly, “Do you read them all?” 

Sherlock crinkled his nose, “Ones that don’t start ‘hi’,” he said in a bored tone, looking back at the screen. “I can solve most of them sitting in my pyjamas before I’ve even finished my coffee.” 

John smiled, “You always could.” His smile widened as Sherlock looked up at him with a forced, toothy grin. “Anything interesting in there this morning?” 

Sherlock raised his brows and drew down the corners of his mouth, “Define interesting,” He said, not taking his eyes away from the screen. “...Mister Holmes, despite the belief that I am crazy, I would like to point out that I am, in fact, not. My therapist thinks I’m suffering from multiple personality disorder, but I know what I heard…” Sherlock read aloud and peered up at John. “Articulate for a nutter.” 

“Sherlock…” John smiled despite the politically incorrect term that dripped from Sherlock’s lips, “So come on then, what’s the case?” 

“Mister...Geoff Hancock would like to know how his dead father is still calling him.” Sherlock summarised. 

John frowned and ran through possibilities in his civilian mind. Recordings, online voice generators and a sick family member, ...mental illness. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, “I’ve got nothing, I can’t work it out.” 

“You never could.” Sherlock said with a ghost of a smile on his lips and chanced looking up to see John smiling and shaking his head, amused by the joke. “He mentions his brother in the email,” Sherlock explained, “...my older brother keeps assuring me that it cannot actually be happening, but what are older siblings if not liars to their juniors?…” he read. “Has to be him; driving the younger crazy, perhaps in the hopes that he’ll take his own life, and then big brother inherits the entirety of Daddy’s wealth.” He looked squarely at John. 

“That’s appalling.” John shook his head, disgusted. 

Sherlock balled his right hand and raised it to his mouth, covering his lips as he coughed, and shifted his position slightly before placing his hands back down on the keys. “You’re lucky Harry never gets involved in your life these days, John - siblings are _murder_.” 

“Well, yours is.” John conceded. He shuffled forward in his seat and rested is arms against the tabletop. “Are you going to email him back with your deduction?” 

Sherlock shook his head, “No - not now, at least.” He reached up and pulled down the lid of the laptop, putting paid to his attempt to occupy his mind with ‘work’. He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, then rested his chin on the extended middle fingers. “What to do with our stolen time?” 

John stuck out his bottom lip. “Want to maybe start going through the file Mycroft left us, seeing as time is getting shorter until the trials? We need to know everything they have, know what they’re going to try before we’re faced with it.” 

Sherlock shook his head, and looked across to the cabinet that ran underneath the dining room window. It was laden with photograph frames, mostly ones Mycroft had left when the house was finished; one of Sherlock’s diploma from university and photographs of John with his sister when they were small. On the edge, closest to the wall and with a mountain of unopened circular post lying on top of it, was the A4 boxfile filled with the case notes, medical reports, death notices and documentation of everything that had brought them to this point. He snapped his eyes back to John and shook his head again. “Not now.” 

“Not now is going to have to stop being our go-to answer sooner rather than later, Love.” John said quietly. 

Sherlock swallowed heavily and sighed, “I know that,” He said a little more briskly than he’d intended to. “But not now.” 

“Okay,” John smiled softly at him. “Not now.” He repeated. “Why don’t I make us something to eat? Coffee for breakfast is all well and good but we can’t survive purely on liquids.” He placed his hands onto the tabletop and stood up. “It’s half eleven,” he said as he glanced at his watch, “I could make us an early lunch - what d'you fancy? I think there’s bagels in the breadbox, and cream cheese in the fridge.” He watched Sherlock’s face, laughing to himself as he turned up his nose at the suggestion, and was about to propose something different when the doorbell chimed. “I’ll get it…” he said, out of habit, and moved around the table and out into the hallway to answer the door. John pulled the locks clear and slowly dragged the door open, peering through the opening as he did. He raised his eyebrows at his visitor. “Mycroft.” he greeted him quietly, then called to Sherlock over his shoulder. “It’s your brother.” 

John pulled back the door and stepped aside, letting Mycroft in. “Good morning, John,” Mycroft nodded at him, “Sherlock,” he added as Sherlock emerged from the dining room. 

Sherlock looked him up and down, “What’re you doing here?” 

“There are a few things we need to talk about,” Mycroft said, “Perhaps we could sit down?” He looked to John as he locked the front door, and then followed when John led into the lounge. Sherlock followed them through and locked the brakes on his chair at the side of the sofa as John sat down, and Mycroft lowered into the armchair around the other side of the coffee table. 

“You look like you’re waiting to confess to murdering someone,” Sherlock commented, hoping his joking would cover the fact that he suddenly felt very nervous. “What’s wrong?” John looked at Sherlock, reading his frowning expression easily, then set his eyes on Mycroft questioningly. 

“There has been national media coverage on the upcoming court dates; BBC News 24 has been covering it, along with various other outlets, including printed press. It makes good reading, it would seem, when two Detective Inspectors are dead and a beloved private detective is left disabled following policing cover-ups.” Mycroft cut straight to the chase. 

“They said exactly that?” John pointed at Mycroft, “They’re trawling through everything for Greg’s cover-ups for Sherlock, they’re bringing that to court?” His face paled, blue eyes looking starkly brighter against his pallor. 

“In one of the online newspapers there were inferences toward Inspector Lestrade’s alliances with Sherlock, yes.” Mycroft admitted. “Sherlock - Mummy called me this morning, even she and Dad are aware of the news coverage, they’ve been approached by people in the village…” He cleared his throat. “She explained a news story she’d seen - you and John had been recorded by reporters leaving the hospital, and there was mention of us pushing for the posthumous conviction.” 

John sat back into the sofa cushions, shaking his head in disbelief. “So the defence of the men on trial, they’re spouting all kinds out there - and we’re being recorded when he goes to the hospital?” He pointed at Sherlock. “We’re being victimised because those bastards are making out that they’re the innocent ones!” He growled. “This is bollocks, Mycroft. Why were there no media blackouts, it involves Scotland Yard for god sakes, why aren’t they fighting to keep as much of this quiet as possible?” 

“It’ll give the impression of having something to hide - two dead DIs and a string of conspiracy theories and threats about senior officers covering for criminals…” Sherlock said, staring off into nothing. He blinked, and brought his eyes to his brother. “Now what?” 

“I’ll provide a driven escort for your hospital and clinic visits; limit the guests to the house; keep off the internet…” Mycroft said, “And let me handle what I can my end. I can’t shut the news down, but I’ll exercise the measures I can to reduce what’s aired publicly.” He watched Sherlock’s eyebrow twitch in the most minute of an action and could read the emotions it conveyed without words. “I know you were just beginning to get life on track again, Sherlock, but you knew the court cases would not sail by us and leave us without some kind of turbulence. I’m sorry, but keeping you safe and out of the line of fire is my main priority - if I have to reduce your independence for a while to do that, then I’m sorry that that is what I have to do, but it will not stop me proceeding.” He inhaled though his nose and let it go slowly. “John, when are the next scheduled appointments with nephrology?” 

“End of the week - Friday afternoon; bloods, dips, renogram. If they’re not happy with his kidney function, or believe he’s in CRF, they’ll begin Aranesp.” John said, the words reminding him - as if he’d ever forget it - that Sherlock’s health balanced hugely on the lifespan of his remaining, overworked and under hydrated kidney. 

“CRF?” Mycroft shook his head. 

“Chronic renal failure.” Sherlock said sharply. “Considering I’ve not had haematuria since they removed the damaged kidney, I think I’ll be fine.” He spat in John’s direction. “None of this is important,” He raised his voice. “What’s important is stopping the bloody BBC from making out that Lestrade’s death is fine because he was corrupt. He wasn’t...he wasn’t corrupt and I don’t want anyone who didn’t know him believing that he was.” 

John sat forwards, and placed his hand over Sherlock’s. “Love, nobody will ever think that.” 

“If they’re printing him as a bent cop, of course they’re going to assume that.” Sherlock snapped at him, “It’s how people work John - I’d think that too. He doesn’t deserve to be memorialised this way, it isn’t fair.” 

“And I am going to work to ensure that nothing else like that is published, Sherlock - public opinion is just mass hysteria. It stands for nothing against whom Greg Lestrade really was.” Mycroft spoke with passion and John found himself endeared to him a little more. Sherlock looked up at him. “I cannot promise people won’t share opinions, unfortunately stupid breeds stupid, but nothing will ever come from those who matter that would paint Lestrade in a bad light.” 

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, “We’ve got through so much worse than news coverage, Sherlock. Don’t let this knock us back now.” 

“I want to see,” Sherlock said suddenly and Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“No.” 

“Why not?” Sherlock asked him, pulling his hand from beneath John’s. “I want to know what people are saying about John and I, about Lestrade, about the bastards who did all of this. I want to see it.” 

“What’s the use, Sherlock? It’ll only make you angrier.” John reasoned, “Leave it, Love,” he said as Sherlock unhooked the brakes from his chair and began heading toward the dining room to his laptop. John got to his feet and followed, and Mycroft was a mere stride behind as Sherlock shoved his chair in at the table with a bump and opened up his laptop. 

“Listen to John,” Mycroft said, standing in the archway, “Can you really afford to be sitting here with a bubbling anger you can’t do a thing about?” 

“Stop telling me what to do!” Sherlock slammed his right fist onto the table. “I want to see this - I want to see what they’re showing on the television, what people are reading so I know what they’re thinking of us all.” 

“I get that, but why?” Mycroft provoked, “You won’t be able to do anything with the answers you produce for yourself - it won’t stop the news, it won’t stop the public’s views, and it certainly will not stop the lawyers of the men standing trial from defending them.” 

“At least I’ll be prepared for anything they’re going to fire at us when we walk into that courtroom.” Sherlock said, more calmly. “So you can go through this with me,” He looked around to John, “Or you can both go away. But you’re not going to hide it from me or keep me from finding it.” 

It took very little searching on Sherlock’s part to find a list of blog posts pertaining to the case in some way, but he found particularly gripping reading in one that emphasised on himself and John, and their relationship with Greg, that was almost a fan-parody of the blog John had once kept. He clicked on the first link to a post entitled “So here’s what I know about what’s going on with SH and JW now…” and took a deep breath. 

_So here’s what I know about what’s going on with SH and JW now…  
You remember that rumour that circulated, that Sherlock was shot and killed? I called bullshit on it at the very start, and then we all started to pick holes in it and then it was leaked by that Maddison girl that he was in the hospital and was life-changingly injured… Well I got some information recently that’s patched up a few of those holes, and shining a light on what’s really going on with our Consulting Detective and his PA.   
Sherlock was shot, by some rogue police officer, and was admitted to the hospital. He didn’t die, but it was close. His spinal cord was severed and he’s been left paralysed and in a wheelchair. I saw him once, at the physiotherapy centre my boyfriend works at. At least, that’s who my boyfriend said it was; I don’t know. If it was Sherlock, John was with him and some tall, Sheldon Cooper in a Suit looking guy. Sherlock looked sick, really sick.  
So there’s what I know. Sherlock’s in a wheelchair, so I suppose he won’t be consulting anymore. Let me know if you guys find anything else out. _

He clicked back out and into the search criteria, and selected another page. It loaded a video, and John and Mycroft both stepped closer as Sherlock turned up the volume. 

_”...one-time police informant and private Detective, Sherlock Holmes became a national name with the assistance he provided to the Metropolitan police on a few pressing cases, proving his worth as a skilled tool. But since the death of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade following his abduction at the end of November last year, Sherlock Holmes’ life has taken a spiralling turn. The man himself was injured whilst providing aid to the police in the city centre here in London, resulting in life-changing injuries that have left him paralysed…”_ The woman’s image disappeared and was replaced with grainy video footage of Sherlock and John leaving the hospital together. John was walking alongside Sherlock as he propelled himself toward their waiting car in the hospital carpark. _“...sources say the previously agile jack-in-office has been left with health issues that could impact upon his quality of life, which can only be worrying when piled on top of the upcoming court cases of Matthew Winston, Carl Potter and Adam Thomas, the three men standing trial for the injuries caused to Sherlock, and for the death of Gregory Lestrade…”_

“Can you find anything about what Mycroft said, about them mentioning getting the sentence for Jack?” John asked, swallowing against the lump of anger and emotion that was paining his throat, constricting it tightly. 

“Don’t search for that.” Mycroft reached forwards and pushed down the lid of Sherlock’s laptop.

Sherlock snapped his head over his shoulder, “Why not?” 

Mycroft jutted his jaw, “Because it’s Dimmock that is giving the interview.” He admitted, watching Sherlock’s face for the inevitable. 

“I assumed as much.” Sherlock said, “So don’t think you hid that from me well. I want to see it.” 

“I don’t.” John spoke up. “Watch it later, if you have to. But I don’t want to see that man’s face, Sherlock, please…” He reached out for Sherlock’s hand, grabbing him by the wrist as he went to lift the lid of the laptop back up. “Please,” he said and locked his eyes on Sherlock. “I don’t want to.” Sherlock nodded in a tiny movement and John slowly released his grip. “I’ll put the kettle on…” John said, for something to remove him, and walked slowly from the dining room. 

Mycroft breathed in deeply and pushed his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers. Sherlock looked around at him and shrugged his shoulders. “Jack-in-office,” he repeated the phrase he’d heard. “I’m a jack-in-office?” 

“That’s the tame version. I read a more detail variation on the theme in a documentation saved for the Daily Mail.” Mycroft said, satirically. “Holmes the meddler, the busy-body, the Scotland Yard jack-in-office.” He cleared his throat. “Public opinion, little brother…” 

“Is just that,” Sherlock cut across him, “The opinion of the public. But it isn’t just the public opinion, is it? Blogs and vlogs I can ignore, but BBC news reports and Dimmock...that’s something different.” He reached for the wheels of his chair and drew away from the table. He turned to face his brother and stared at him. “I don’t know how to be.” He said quietly. “We don’t sleep, and when we do we wake one another up with dreams about things we cannot change. We’re running on empty and while we’re both adept at pulling on our day clothes and getting on with it, neither of us can keep this up for long.” He jutted his lower jaw and his features softened into sadness and innocence as he met Mycroft’s eyes. “If we survive these trials without a breakdown I’ll be surprised, but if we survive it and we’re still together, it’ll be nothing short of miraculous.” 

Mycroft frowned, “You’re having relationship problems?” 

Sherlock shook his head, “Not specifically; but we’re biting at one another all the time.” 

“It’s the stress - once the court appearances have come and gone, and the sentences are given, you’ll be able to move forward. We’re in limbo at the moment, little brother, nobody can expect you to be sailing on the calm when you have no idea what lies around the next corner.” Mycroft spoke with wisdom that Sherlock hadn’t expected. “Do not give up on John Watson, he’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“I wish you’d said you didn’t feel like doing this before I laid the mats out and got you down on the floor,” John sighed, sitting back on the backs of his legs, giving up on his kneeling stance, as Sherlock insisted he release his leg and leave him be. He sat between Sherlock’s legs, looking down at him, as Sherlock stared up at the ceiling with a clear look of anger on his face. “You were saying yourself yesterday that it’s important - I know you’re not always going to want to go through this, and having a day off is fine, but just letting me know before…” 

“Yes, alright John, you’ve been inconvenienced, I’m sorry.” Sherlock snapped. He drew his right hand up and covered his eyes with his long fingers. “It’s harder than it looks being a cripple, you know. It isn’t as freeing as you might imagine, sitting on my arse all day. You think I like this, you think I’m enjoying this, like I’m using it as bloody foreplay or something, because I am really not.” 

“Could have fooled me; all the effort you put into keeping life normal.” John rolled his eyes and pushed himself up from the floor. His feet hurt, tingling with pins and needles that would ordinarily have made him and Sherlock giggle as he tried to jiggle life back into them, but he stood and ignored it to prove a point. “You’re not the only person this is hard on, you know? Do you think I like seeing you struggle, or that we’re both hanging on by our fingernails at the moment… I heard you, you know, moaning to your brother. Our relationship has got nothing to do with him.” 

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows, struggling a little as the angle tore at his already aching back muscles, and glared at John. “So I’m not allowed to talk to my brother?” 

“Not about me you’re not, no.” John moaned, arms waving in anger. “You think he even gives a crap about how you feel about me, or don’t feel about me, or that we’re struggling? Which, by the way, I wasn’t aware was something we were doing.” John sniped. “He doesn’t care; he’s too wrapped up with the very heavy issues we have facing us.” He exhaled heavily and shrugged his shoulders. “Why’re you sabotaging it?” He asked, “Why even make a comment about us splitting up? I love you, you jackass, you don’t get to be a dick and expect me to disappear because things are rocky at the moment. I’d marry you tomorrow if it wasn’t an entirely inappropriate time, or that it wouldn’t kill me that Greg wouldn’t be there…” He halted, catching himself before he started to cry. “You do not get to decide...all on your own...that we don’t work anymore. You don’t get to do that, you hear me?” He pointed his left index finger down at Sherlock. “I’m not still standing here, at your side, with open heart surgery scars down my chest and nightmares swimming around my mind because it’s miraculous; I’m here because I love you and cannot imagine a single moment of my life when you’re not in it. So if you’re scared, tell me, talk to me, share it with me, so I can remind you every single minute that I’m here with you because I want to be, need to be, because you’re all I’ve got in this shitty fucking world that is worth anything.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Want to hear something stupid?” 

John turned around, having been emptying the plates from the dishwasher and stocking them back into the kitchen cabinet. He rested his backside against the countertop and folded his arms across his chest. “What’s that?” he asked, smiling a little at Sherlock. 

“Mrs Hudson was whistling when she was cleaning the window in the dining room when she was here last, if you remember she took the curtains down and moaned about Mycroft’s choices of fabric.” Sherlock said, making a funny face in the hopes that the ice would be broken. 

John laughed through his nose and nodded his head. “I remember.” 

“Well, she was whistling Shave and a Haircut.” He said, “and I asked her to stop. I told her it was annoying, that she was out of tune, that she was doing it wrong… the truth is that all I could think of, hearing it again, was Lestrade’s singular habit of always doing it when he knocked a door or rang a doorbell and it made my chest feel too tight to breathe…” he swallowed slowly, looking like it took effort, and John nodded sadly at him. “If the day comes when you and I make a vow...a commitment of the magnitude of marriage, it would kill me, too, for him not to be there.” 

John unlaced his arms and cleared his throat, “I know it would, and I didn’t mean to suggest that it wouldn’t. We’re both exhausted, both stressed, both still going through the crazy grief process. Please don’t ever think that it won’t work between us because I’ve never felt so solidly about anyone as I do you.” John said honestly. 

“I know,” Sherlock admitted, moving further into the kitchen. “And I’m fairly certain my entire world would fall apart if you weren’t in it.” 

John smiled, sincere and small and loving enough to make his eyes look happy for a time. “Maybe that should be our reward, when all of this is over.” 

“What?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He brought his right hand to his face and pushed his curls from his forehead. He needed a haircut, they were beginning to grow too long, too reminiscent of being small and childlike. He wondered if that was why Mycroft hadn’t mocked him; it was easier to love Sherlock if he looked innocent enough to be loved. 

“Getting married.” John braced his hands on his hips and grinned at Sherlock. Sherlock frowned at him, watching him move as he came around to the side of him, then crouched beside his chair. Slowly, and wearing an impish grin, John lowered his right knee to the floor and peeled Sherlock’s hand from the tire rungs of his chair. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes - marry me, you mad bastard.” 

Sherlock’s keen eyes flicked across John’s face too fast, that small brown fleck within the blue of his right eye blending into his pupil as they grew wide with love. He pressed his lips together, and fought a losing battle to help them tightly closed as he broke into a broad smile. He reached out with his right hand and cupped the back of John’s head, pulling him in close and almost knocking him off his balance. “Of course I bloody will,” He said and pushed his lips hard against John’s. 

They wrapped their arms tightly around one another, holding on harder than they ever had before, and John exhaled through happy tears as he felt Sherlock bury his face into his neck. “I love you,” he whispered into Sherlock’s hair. “Oh, my God, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“And you’ve explained it all to him?” Violet asked, pulling her legs up beside her on the sofa. She and Siger had booked as early a train as they could, and Mycroft had met them with a car at four pm at the station and brought them to dinner before allowing them settle in back at his house. She took a sip from the teacup in her hand and held it carefully. 

“As much as necessary,” Mycroft nodded his head, sitting opposite his parents. “And as is typical of Sherlock, there were aspects he worked out for himself.” He exhaled a tired sigh. His night of wakefulness was catching up to him as the afternoon became mid-evening and he wondered if falling into bed, if only for the solitude, would be considered ridiculous at eight pm. 

Siger smiled out of the corner of his mouth, a singular Holmesian expression both Mycroft and Sherlock had inherited but one that Mycroft saw regularly practiced on his younger brother’s lips. “And John,” he asked. “How is he coping?” 

“Surprisingly well - he babysits Sherlock like he was his own parent, and to look at him you wouldn’t know he had had open heart surgery shortly before Christmas.” Mycroft said, though the words coming from his mouth served as a reminder that almost made it hurt like it was happening again before his eyes. “They’re nervous, of course, with the court dates approaching, but they are nothing if not thorough in their ability to make life as normal as possible.” 

“Well, good.” Siger nodded his head. “They cannot change a thing that has happened, but that life is continuing for them can only be a good thing.” 

“Here, here,” Violet agreed. “I can’t wait to see him in the morning; it seems like the longest time.” 

Mycroft smiled at her, albeit forced. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you, too.” 

“Is that young physiotherapist still making daily visits with Sherlock?” Siger asked, and reached to the small table before him to retrieve his coffee. 

Mycroft shook his head, “No, John has taken over the exercises. Twice daily, for an hour at least. Amusing, when viewed from the sidelines, but Sherlock is putting his all into it. He transfers himself well, is getting stronger at holding his back straight, and is a lot more proactive with maintaining his health.” He explained, sounding almost proud. 

“And what about his… _other_ health issues?” Violet asked carefully. “I don’t often consider it, with it not being something I can see like his wheelchair, but I know it impacts upon him hugely to be minus a kidney and yet…” She shook her head, visibly not happy with her line of thought. 

“He’s doing well I believe; John mentioned that he is battling an infection at the moment, but I believe it’s the first one since the Christmas period, so that is an improvement on the immediate recurrences he was experiencing before.” Mycroft glanced down at his watch. “I’m sure they would still be awake; perhaps you’d like to telephone, talk with him for a while tonight and organise your day with him tomorrow?” He was partially offering the idea so that he wouldn’t be bullied by Sherlock when they just dropped by in the morning, but it seemed a good distraction for him to be able to disappear for half an hour or more. Love his parents though he undoubtedly did, their presence always reminded him why he had loved his life all the more when he finally left home. 

“That’s an idea, it’ll be nice to be able to wish him goodnight, too.” Violet smiled. 

“Use the phone in the study,” Mycroft offered, and didn’t get up to direct her. She knew his house well by now, he knew, and he felt too exhausted to bother. 

Siger watched his wife leave the room, leaving the lounge door ajar in her absence, and sat forwards on the sofa when he heard her footsteps diminish as she travelled further down the hallway. Mycroft frowned at him. “You can dispense with the sugarcoating now that your mother is not here,” he said bluntly, “How is he?” 

Mycroft breathed in slowly, puffing out his chest, and let it out in a sigh through his nose. “Struggling,” he said, without faltering, without holding back. “Mentally, at least. Physically he really is doing so much better. But his mind is his worst enemy, but then again it always has been.” 

“You have to stay with him, Mycroft.” Siger insisted. 

“I am,” Mycroft narrowed his eyes a little, feeling accused. 

“You know him better than most, you know what he does when the darkness descends. You need to make sure he doesn’t spiral when he feels like he doesn’t have any other options.” 

Mycroft blinked his eyes and nodded his head, “I promise you; I’m always here for Sherlock, I always have been.” 

Siger sat back, “I know you have.” He clasped his hands together in his lap. “And your mother and I are here for you, you know that yourself, don’t you? I’m not asking you to be a crutch for Sherlock without offering the same support to you, too. Don’t think that we don’t appreciate that you’ve been through this with him, that you, too, lost a friend in all of this.” 

Mycroft stiffened his body to the kindness. “Thank you,” he said, stiffly. “Excuse me,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m going to make a fresh pot of tea.” He slipped from the warm lounge and into the hallway briskly, and composed himself with steady breaths in the cooler air. He walked toward the kitchen with measured steps and braced his hands on the countertop. His mind had gone to so many places since Sherlock’s accident and had come back mostly unscathed, but it hadn’t - for some reason or another that he hadn’t analysed - considered Sherlock turning to narcotics. Naively, perhaps, he’d assumed it wouldn’t happen - or couldn’t happen - this time. But he knew how Sherlock’s mind was ticking now, how dark it could get and would get in the days ahead, and the fear made his stomach clench and forced a heavy nausea to rise. 

And all the while he considered the words of his father, the offer of support, and wondered if that was the first time he had ever heard anything as close to an ‘I love you’ from him since he was a child.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Sherlock sighed through his nose, thoroughly fed up, and pushed his right hand further into his hair, entwining his curls around his fingers. Three am had always been a lonely hour, but when mental and physical exhaustion could not be sated, despite their ferocity, three am seemed to be more of a mock than anything else. At his side, John had been sleeping relatively peacefully for the last two and a half hours, having drifted off quickly after they ambled into bed just after twelve. But for Sherlock, the beauty of that sweeping, fatigued feeling just as one drifted off to sleep would not come. The brief conversation he had had with his mother swam around his mind; she’d been sweet and loving, careful in her words and affectionate as always, and he had felt loved throughout her entire time on the phone, but he couldn’t help but analyse her voice now that he was lying in silence. Pity had been rife, but then he heard it everybody’s voice these days. 

He wondered why he hadn’t told her that he and John had agreed to marry. He supposed it was because it didn’t feel personal over the telephone, or that it didn’t feel like the right time to even be sharing that kind of news. But a little part of his mind wandered to the thought that he didn’t even believe the time would truly arrive when he and John would be able to marry. It didn’t seem likely that, at any point soon, ‘this’ would all be over. They had lost so much, in such a short space of time, too, it seemed almost against the laws of the universe they occupied that something would then be _given_ to them. Especially not something so precious as a promise to spend the rest of their natural lives as blissfully in need of one another as they currently were. 

He drew his hand from his hair and turned his head, looking across at John. He was still sleeping, and lying facing him with the quilt pulled up beneath his chin. His mouth was open and he was whistling deep breaths in between his parted teeth. Sherlock smiled in the half light of the room, illuminated by the light he’d purposefully left on in the en suite that broke through the crack in the ajar door. He turned his head back to the ceiling and resituated his hand into his mop of curls, his OCD mind feeling quietened by the action of his fingers threading the c-shaped flicked of hair through them. 

He thought about John’s proposal, about how he’s smiled when he knelt down and how he’d called him a ‘mad bastard’, about the intensity of the hug they’d shared when he said yes, about the smell of John’s body spray against the collar of his shirt when he’d buried his face in the curve of his neck, the absolute certainty in John’s voice when he whispered ‘I love you - oh, my God, I love you’. He gave a deep sigh into the quiet of the room and wondered if he would be able to recall those images and the feeling of safety within that hug as accurately as he was now in the weeks to come. He made a mental note to try, to use that hug as his Mind Palace, to come back to it when the pressure of the court appearances and the verdicts became too much to bear - to lose himself in when missing the sound of Greg’s voice became debilitating.


	6. Chapter 6

“It’s gone eleven…” 

John looked up from the dining table where he’d been sat since seven am, with the ‘not now’ box-file open and emptied across it, and smiled at Sherlock, quickly recovering from the small startle his sudden arrival had caused - if he hadn’t have been focusing so hard reading, he’d have heard the lift operating, but his focus has been absorbed. He licked his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and put down the Biro in his left hand. “You looked peaceful,” he said softly, then coughed to clear his throat as his voice came out in a croak from his three-plus hours of sitting in silence. “Didn’t want to disturb you.” 

Sherlock, although dressed and clearly ready for the day, looked exhausted still and his face still had small creases in the skin where he’d been in the same position for a prolonged time whilst he slumbered. “And I appreciate it, but my parents are coming at twelve,” he said with mild annoyance.

John smirked, “Yes, and it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to answer the front door to people I’ve met before.” He teased. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dismissed the jibing. “They didn’t phone or anything while I was sleeping?” 

John shook his head and rested back in the dining chair, “No - your brother did, about an hour ago,” he said as he checked his watch. “He said he’d be coming with them, but wouldn’t stay as he had things to do. I told him I’d make lunch.” 

“Bait him with food,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “Clever boy.” John laughed a little. “You started reading, then?” Sherlock nodded at the table and drew his chair in close. “Is it heavy?” 

John sniffed and sat forwards, searching through a small stack of papers for one in particular. “...Greg’s autopsy report isn’t easy reading; but Jack’s makes it easier to bear.” He said, without looking up at Sherlock. He pulled out the sheet he wanted, and held it out to Sherlock. 

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked, taking the sheet of paper. It had a single crease horizontally through the middle and he folded it back down before opening it out again, and scanned his eyes across it quickly. John watched him, trying to read his expression. “Mark’s autopsy.” Sherlock said quietly. He shook his head. “...why?” 

John inhaled deeply and shrugged his shoulders, “They’ve been digging. Dimmock must have fed them the lines about you and Mark.” 

“But with Jack dead, none of what Jack knew or nearly knew or anything can be brought in - his accusations died with him, just as much as our ability to apparently make him pay for the things he did.” Sherlock said, tossing the paper down onto the mountain of others. 

“But this file is from Mycroft, Sherlock - everything in here is what he thinks we need to be prepared to come across, information we need to know, facts we need to learn…” John waved his hands over the table. “For some reason or another, your brother thinks we need to be aware that Mark’s death is going to be raised.” 

“But we’re not on trial,” Sherlock defended. “Mark has nothing to do with the charges - none of them are linked into this, they’re all being charged with acts committed with Jack…” Sherlock explained in a haphazard manner. 

“You and I know that, Mycroft knows that - but some juror who gets some formulated sob story from any one of those three doesn’t.” John reasoned, “Maybe that’s why your brother wants us to be prepared.” 

Sherlock drew his bottom lip into his mouth and gripped it between his teeth. He inhaled loudly through his nose and released his lip, exhaling quickly as he spoke, “But if Mycroft wants me to know something, or do something, he doesn’t beat around the bush - he comes out with it, he makes his demands and gets his point across.” He postulated. “Why thinly veil it?” 

John shrugged his shoulders, “He’s your brother - how am I supposed to know.” He pushed his hands against the table and stood up. He walked around, and planted a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s messy curls. “I’ll put the kettle on, and start throwing something together for lunch.” he said, letting his hand linger on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. “Do you want something small for breakfast?” 

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “Coffee, though…” he called after John as he walked into the kitchen. Sherlock began packing the papers away, stuffing them in no particular order back into the box-file. By the time John had returned to the dining room, coffee in one hand and Sherlock’s pillbox in the other, Sherlock had everything secured tightly into the box and was stuffing the lid back down. 

“He’ll ask about it,” John said, placing the mug and the tablets down onto the table. “He’ll take one look at the unit and know we had it open, probably even know we had this conversation.” 

Sherlock glanced sideways at John, “You’re working on the assumption he’s not watching us right now.” 

John choked out a laugh, “Probably a good thing I didn’t give you the blow job I was planning on when you rolled in then, hey?” Despite himself, Sherlock let out a deep laugh and shook his head. He reached for pillbox and flicked it open, upending it to turn the tablets out onto the table. He picked them up, and tossed them into his mouth, and swallowed them down with one precarious mouthful of coffee.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“So, that is your entire plan?” Mycroft said, lining up his cutlery on his cleared plate. John held his breath while Violet and Siger looked anywhere but at their sons. “You’re going to just hope that they don’t even mention the man’s name? You’re going to be sitting in that courtroom, Sherlock, you can’t very well assume that nothing will be thrown around with the sole purpose of seeing how you react? This is all one final play from the Skinner’s, from everyone he had on his side. Why are you sitting there like it is all going to follow a single line of simply prosecuting the three of them? It will backfire; it is bound to - Greg Lestrade lied for you, _I_ lied for you. That is not going to stay hidden, and once it is out by the lips of whomever has been tasked with that particular easter egg, there is going to be nothing stopping them from running with everything, and inevitably doing what Jack Skinner wanted to do in the first place.” 

Sherlock’s eyes dug into the side of John’s head, “You just had to ask, didn’t you?” 

“He’s right,” John pointed both hands in Mycroft’s direction as awkward tension filled the dining room. “As much as we like to think your and Mark’s relationship isn’t linked to the men going on trial in a week and a half, it actually is. And we’ve got to be prepared for it.” 

“The trials are not about me!” Sherlock insisted, slamming his fork down onto his plate, “It’s not about anything that came before Lestrade dying. None of them are facing anything for this fucking chair I’m stuck in, so why should anything that happened with Mark and me be dragged up? If me being stuck, like this, is not worth prosecution of its own, why should what did or didn’t happen with me and Mark be?” 

Mycroft regained his composure, “Nobody here thinks that your injuries aren’t worth prosecution, Sherlock.” 

“Courts do, though, don’t they? Scotland Yard could bring nothing to the table to hold them accountable for this, or John… What right do they have to make it about something else?” Sherlock heaved a deep breath. “I am sick of all of this, so sick of the waiting to know, whilst still knowing full well that, yet again, no blame is going to be laid at anyone’s door for Lestrade, for John dying in theatre, for this…” he fanned his hands up and down himself. 

“We don’t _know_ anything, Sherlock. We can’t know.” John reasoned, “It could go either way, that’s the point.” 

“It’s not the point!” Sherlock shouted, “It’s not the point.” 

“Sweetheart, please…” Violet spoke when, for a lasting moment, quiet descended. She reached across the space between her and Sherlock and touched her fingers to the back of his hand, but he snatched the limb away quickly. “Sherlock.” 

“Don’t _Sherlock_ me…” Sherlock groaned. “I’m angry, Mother, and I think I’m damn well allowed to be.” 

“Of course you are,” Siger spoke up quickly. “Of course you are allowed to be angry - we all feel the anger, Sherlock - but there are channels, laws, requirements…” 

“Oh, for God’s sake, you sound like Mycroft!” Sherlock shook his head, incredulous. “Why are none of you getting where I’m coming from? These court proceedings are useless because they’re unrelated to the actual crimes, the real reason why people should be being tried, and yet they’re planning on dragging me through the fucking dirt…” 

“We understand, Sherlock,” Mycroft cut in, “But…” 

Sherlock growled and threw back his head, then snapped himself straight again. “There are no buts! You don’t understand… Do you know the kinds of things they’re going to say? I’m going to be slaughtered; it’ll all be about the heroin, about the homosexual relationships, about the corrupt little drug-whore who wronged Army Man Skinner’s little brother and ruined his life and all he did was seek revenge. Regardless of who and what I am now, I’m going to be painted in that courtroom as a heroin addict, like some disease-ridden piece of livestock… The court of public opinion is going to love it.” 

All eyes were on Sherlock at his outburst, at the precise nature of his fears, and nobody could speak. John understood, finally, what Sherlock’s anxieties were rooted in and Mycroft felt sick to know that his brother was probably, almost completely, exactly right. Violet closed her eyes to the candid way in which her son spoke; when she opened them again, tears fell down her cheeks. 

“Do you have to attend?” Siger asked after a long silence. 

“If I don’t, will it stop them talking?” Sherlock said, frighteningly calm at last. 

Siger tilted his head slightly, conceding. “Perhaps not, but you wouldn’t have to hear it; none of us would.” 

“But it would still be reported, still be considered by the jury.” Sherlock pointed out. He leaned forward and reached for his glass of water. John watched his hand shaking as he pulled it back and held it to his mouth, swallowing half of it down in two mouthfuls. He placed the glass back down and sighed, steadying himself more than calming his temper.

“What do other people’s opinions matter?” Violet asked, dabbing at her eyes with her serviette. 

“They do when the _other people_ are the jury,” Sherlock’s attitude lacked respect, Mycroft noted, but he didn’t shout at her this time. 

“Look, none of us can switch off from this at the minute, and we won’t be able to until it’s all over with - however long that takes,” John spoke with an admirable calm about his nature. “But tearing strips off one another is going to get us nowhere. The five of us here, now, are the same five who’re going to be here at the end of this and we need one another - I don’t know about you lot, but I can’t see me making it to the end of these trials without you four beside me. We’ve got to be united, we’ve got to be understanding of the fears and the possibilities and the potential for failures - we’ve got to come out of the other side of this stronger, because we’re all we’ve got left.” 

“Absolutely,” Siger nodded his head, “You’re absolutely right, son.” 

John leaned forwards in his seat and bent at an odd angle, peering into Sherlock’s face. “You hear me, you git? We are all we have - nothing they might say, do say, or could have said when it’s over will change the way I see you. I’m still going to marry you, you idiot.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - 

Violet folded the teatowel and laid it neatly on the countertop. She picked up the pile of freshly washed dinner plates and slipped them into the press. She felt useful, at least. She glanced around the kitchen, taking it in. The shrunken counters, the kettle that swung back and forth on a white tipper, the lowered light switches, the large space around the island counter, the wide doorway. It was the first time she’d really assessed it, really allowed it to sink in just how much was altered, if only slightly, to give Sherlock something normal. It was normal - but not quite. A fitting metaphor for her baby boy. 

“Everything okay?” 

Violet jumped, startled by John’s voice, and blinked her mind back into focus. “Yes,” she said, too quickly. “Yes, fine,” She smiled. “I did the dishes.” She said, lamely, pointing to the cupboard she’d just tidied them away into.

“Oh, thank you. I mean, we have a dishwasher, so you didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.” John smiled softly. “I was going to pop the kettle on; fancy a cup of tea?” 

Violet’s ability to keep smiling was failing, but she offered something she hoped looked like a smile, albeit a sad one. “I could murder a cup,” She said, sweeping her hands down her front anxiously. “Let me help?” 

John stood before her and shook his head. He reached out his hands and captured hers, “Go into the lounge and be with your sons; I can handle a kettle and a few teabags.” 

“I don’t know what to say to him - to Sherlock. I don’t know how to make him feel safe.” She admitted, but she didn’t know why she felt she could. John just seemed so easy to talk to, like he understood everything. Maybe it was his general practitioner manner, she couldn’t put her finger on it, but she couldn’t stop herself from talking. “I don’t know how to help him - he’s my baby boy, I changed his nappies and cuddled him when he cried, and now here he is a grown man and I don’t know one single thing I can say to him to make him feel okay.” 

“There’s nothing any of us can say,” John shrugged his shoulders up, defeated but accepting. “Words can’t fix any of this, not unless it’s the word ‘guilty’.” he supposed. “Just be yourself with him; talk about him as a kid, remind him of things from when he was small, embarrass him and Mycroft. Keep it as normal as possible, he seems to respond well to that.” 

“You make it sound easy,” She said, shaking her head at him. 

John flattened his mouth into a thin line, thinking about his response, and then said, “It isn’t easy. But we’ve just got to play-act at normal until normal comes.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I'm happily surprised, I must admit,” the doctor said and pointed to the images on his computer screen. “Your urine shows active infection, and I know you're taking antibiotics for that at the moment but it's key to remember that there will always be a low level of bacteria indicated in samples, thanks to the catheterisation.” He outlined, “But remarkably your kidney is working very well. I would like to perhaps begin a diuretic, furosemide, to see if higher urine production will help with the reduction in calcium through excretion - those levels in your blood were just on the higher side of where I'd like to see them. With the furosemide, there'll be a few side effects and it is possible that you'll risk dehydration symptoms if you don't maintain a good level of fluids, so it's important that you do.” He looked at Sherlock. “On the whole, your urinary tract is doing marvellously. I know you're already taking oxybutynin, aren't you?” 

John frowned, “No… he isn't.” And Sherlock shook his head. 

“Oh…” the doctor raised his brows. “Strange, given the spasms you've been experiencing in your bladder, but no matter - let's go forward with the diuretics, monitor your output and blood pressure whilst on them, and schedule a revisit for two weeks from now to rerun the function tests.” He said, clicking at the computer and printing off the prescription request. “Drop in on the hospital pharmacy and pick this up. Start first thing in the morning, and stay well hydrated…” he handed the page to Sherlock. “And I'll see you soon.” 

John took the script from Sherlock and folded it between his hands. He led out of the consultation room, holding the door open for Sherlock to follow him out, and pulled a face at Sherlock when he’d let the door close behind them. 

“Oxybutynin…” John shook his head. “I mean, if you were passing so much urine you were incontinent I’d get it, but being non-reflex and having a UTI does not warrant anything to further halt the workings of your bladder muscles. I’m not even a urologist, and I could tell that guy had no clue.” 

Sherlock crinkled his nose, “What about the diuretics?” He asked him, following at John’s right side as he moved along the spacious corridor. The pharmacy was located on the same floor, it just appeared to be some miles across the hospital grounds. 

“That I agree with,” John confirmed. “The higher your urine production, the less time it spends sitting, getting stagnant and causing infection - just make sure you’re drinking plenty, and eating things to replenish your minerals. It’s a good plan - anything that reduces the risk of you developing hypercalcemia is a good thing.” 

“I understand, John, I'm a graduate chemist. But the inactivity of my muscles can still cause calcium build up,” Sherlock insisted. 

“Even more good reason for your manipulations, exercises and physio then, hey?” John smiled, wiggling his eyebrows. “I better text your brother, let him know we’ll be done once we’ve finished at the pharmacy.” 

“Don’t,” Sherlock halted, and John stopped beside him. “We’ll get a cab.” 

“You have fifty for it?” John raised his brows. 

“To Baker Street…” Sherlock added. “I want to see Mrs Hudson.” 

“Your brother will crucify me.” John frowned comically. “Can I at least let him know we're going? Save all the drama…”

Sherlock crinkled his nose. “If you must,” he conceded.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Did I hear John right yesterday?” Siger spoke up into the quiet of Mycroft’s lounge. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, but Siger had been watching his wife flick back and forth through the newspaper whilst drinking a cup of tea for the last hour. He had to wonder if she’d truly taken any of the text in. 

Violet looked up, “In what context?” 

Siger rose from his chair and crossed the room to join his wife beside the window. She was seated in one of the two fireside chairs placed there, with a small table between them. He sat down opposite her and crossed his right leg over his left. “He told Sherlock that he still intended on marrying him.” 

Violet smiled, “He did.” She nodded her head. “Perhaps it’s a conversation they’d had. If it were a formal announcement, they would have been a little more forthcoming with information.” 

“Surely this isn’t an appropriate time for discussions like that?” Siger supposed. 

“Our son’s gay marriage, or marriage at all?” Violet asked, releasing the pages of the paper in her hands. She set her eyes on her husband. “If they are intending to spend the rest of their lives together, which I hope that they do, then it doesn’t surprise me that it’s a discussion they might have had. And I wouldn’t assume that marriage would be something they’d be planning for this moment. Perhaps it’s a silver lining they’re holding on to.” 

Siger watched his wife; he was not so blessed with the singular abilities that their boys possessed, but reading his wife had always been the easiest thing for him to do in the world. He could read her pain, her sadness, her acceptance, all in the way her eyebrows quirked, or her lips drew in, and his talent had been perfected over the years. “Isn’t a silver lining something we all deserve?” 

“Us, too?” Violet smiled softly at him, her sad blue eyes brightening for a moment. 

“Perhaps for us that is knowing that the future for Sherlock, and Mikey, is safe.” He supposed and Violet’s sad eyes sparkled a little more, this time reflecting love for her husband’s idea of happiness - fulfilling his parental role. 

“I rather think it is.” Violet nodded her head. “My Love, the fear on your face is overwhelming. Talk to me…” 

“Of course I’m fearful,” Siger said honestly. “Our sons were put through torture, physical and mental, and even now it isn’t over. Sherlock is a slither of the man he was last year. Fear is my fuel… And yet there is nothing we can do that will exhibit a single amount of control over any of this, including being scared.” 

“I am sad and I'm scared, too... beyond my own comprehension, even. But our boys need us; all three of them.” Violet said softly. 

Siger nodded his head once swiftly. “Which is why their happiness, however it comes, is so important to me.”

Violet looked like she was about to speak, but the door of the lounge opened suddenly and she stopped before she started. Mycroft stepped in, his suit jacket over his arm, and raised his brows by way of a formal greeting to his parents. Violet smiled at him, “Have you heard from Sherlock? Do you know how he got on at the hospital?” 

Mycroft hummed and draped his jacket over the back of the sofa, “John was in touch; overall the consultant is pleased with his inner workings. John did mention that medication had been provided, a form of diuretic, as an aid to his kidneys cleaning his blood and excretion…” he pulled a face. “They were taking a trip to Baker Street, apparently. I'll make sure a car collects them there this afternoon.”

“Is it wise?” Siger asked with a frown, “Surely they should remain home where they're safe.” 

Mycroft considered his father's concern. “They're as safe as they can be, home or not. None of us know what is going to happen or if there really is a threat…” 

“Of course there is a threat!” Siger cut across him. “Mikey, son, we were all in that dining room yesterday - if Sherlock is afraid then you owe it to him to protect him where you can. Galavanting across London…” 

“He isn't galavanting, and John is with him.” Violet reasoned, and she cupped her hand over her husband's as she leaned across the small table between them. “He cannot stay locked up, it isn't healthy for either of them. Perhaps seeing friends is a lift they need? And you can have a car collect them, like you said, can't you, sweetheart?” She turned to Mycroft. 

Mycroft nodded at her swiftly. 

“He's vulnerable,” Siger said shortly, “I'm the first to advocate his freedom, I always have been, but right now he's no safer than he was the night he was shot.” 

“Once the trials are over…” Mycroft began, but was stopped short of continuing. 

“Over! They're yet to start.” Siger sighed, “I'm sorry - I'm aware I'm aiming my short temper at you and I don't mean to, but until there is a result for what happened I don't feel safe being so close to him and yet so far from knowing he's actually safe!” 

“Locking he and John up won't promise their safety either, though.” Mycroft said, though he had faith in his abilities to try. “John encapsulated it well yesterday - we’re all we have to get through this. But they have a bond; they're happiest and safest, sometimes, when left to be alone together. I won't stop looking out for them, I promise.” 

“He is happy, isn't he?” Violet smiled, “John makes him happy.” 

Mycroft nodded his head once, “He does.” 

“I suppose a general practitioner for a partner is a good fit,” Siger remarked with a small smile. 

“John Watson on the whole, for Sherlock, is a good fit.” Mycroft defended gently.


	8. Chapter 8

John found himself smiling for the entire hour and a half that they spent in Mrs Hudson’s presence, mostly because that was her reaction to Sherlock. Her love for the scruffy-haired man had always been clear, but the smile that she cast on him fondly as they sipped coffee and proved to John just how deep and wide that particular cavern of love was. Relief and sadness was in her expression too, he could see that, but love was the truest and brightest. It almost made him feel sad when Mrs Hudson herself broke off the coffee date. 

“Do you have to go?” He asked her, “We’re going out of our minds just staring at one another all day.” 

She placed her hand on his shoulder as she stood up and smiled, “I'm sorry John, love, but as I said to you every day you lived above me - I am not your housekeeper. I have my own commitments. That isn't to say I really want to go,” she added quickly. 

“Let her go, John.” Sherlock shook his head. “And anyway, I'm sure Mycroft has had a car circulating for the last twenty minutes. We should go too.”

John stretched in his chair, then noisily pushed it away from the small table. The noise echoed through the quiet cafe. “I suppose we should squeeze in an hour or so physio anyway,” he conceded, looking at Sherlock. 

“How is it going?” Mrs Hudson asked, pulling on the cardigan that she’d taken off whilst warm in the cafe, and watched John help Sherlock slip his coat on. “The physio,” she elaborated when John peered up at her, focusing mostly on pulling Sherlock’s jacket down behind his back. 

“Good,” John nodded and straightened himself up, pulling his jeans back up over his hips at the same time. “He’s getting stronger and stronger with each session. He’s sticking at it daily, too, which is good in itself.” John shoved his hand affectionately into the back of Sherlock’s head. 

Mrs Hudson smiled, “I really am glad. For a while there, Molly and I were so worried that Inspector Lestrade’s death would...well, that nothing good would come after it but you two are doing so well, you’re looking so healthy…” She cupped her hands around Sherlock’s cheeks. “It warms my heart…” She stopped, her eyes welling as she became characteristically emotional. Sherlock side-eyed John, even as Mrs Hudson help his face firmly in her hands, and smiled in such a way John couldn’t work out if it were emotion or confusion. 

Sherlock reached up his hands and cupped his fingers around Mrs Hudson’s wrists, gently easing her hands from his face. “We’ll see you soon,” He vowed. 

“Stay safe,” She said, turning away, feeling too emotional to actually say goodbye. She missed her boys, and wasn’t about to say goodbye to them for fear it could actually be a final goodbye. 

“C’mon, Love,” John touched Sherlock’s shoulder as the cafe door closed behind her and she turned to the right to two-two-one. “Let’s go.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Can we give the floor dancing a wipe today?” Sherlock said, almost as though he were nervous of what might be his response. He clicked the lock button on his phone and laid it down on the island counter. 

John shrugged his shoulders, folding the final two shirts from within the laundry basket he had on the counter beside him, and shook his head, “It’s important, Sherlock.” 

“I know it is - but after the weekend we have one week to be ready for the start of the trials. We need to sit down, together, and finally get our heads straight with everything that Mycroft has put into that file…” Sherlock defended his reasoning. He didn’t mention he was in pain, that his back felt crampy and tight, and he didn’t mention that he felt tired to his core. “It’s important, too.” 

John lifted the pile of laundry and dropped it back into the basket now it was folded and ready to put away. “I agree that it’s important, and I agree that we need to get prepared, but not at the expense of other important things. Your health is so much more valuable to me than anything in that bloody box.” He looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. 

Sherlock drew his mouth to the side, “I appreciate the sentiment, but being on top of this information is vital and time is running out.” 

John sighed and reached both hands out, cupping them over Sherlock’s shoulders, “Okay, fine.” He leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “But first we’ll eat dinner.” 

“...dinner…” Sherlock crooked his right brow. 

John laughed, “Yes, Love. It’s the name given to a concoction, usually on a plate, of combined foodstuffs that is consumed in the evening.” 

Sherlock tried to look affronted but he couldn’t help but laugh, despite the pain in his back creeping higher and higher. “Shut up, you idiot.” 

 

They remained in the dining room after dinner - John had thrown together a pasta dish he wasn’t sure he’d be able to recreate if he tried, because he wasn’t even sure what he’d chucked into the cooking pot. It had been nice, though, and Sherlock had all but cleared his dish. With their empty bowls pushed aside, John brought the boxfile to the table and tipped it out and the two began sifting through the sheets, documents, photographs and reports that had been thrown together. 

John picked out an unopened envelope and slipped his finger under the seal to tear it open. He slipped out the folded sheets inside and opened them out. Twelve or more pages of crisp, white paper were held together by a single staple in the top left corner and the cover sheet simply said _William Holmes; LWaT_. John frowned, and lifted up the top sheet, peering at the next page. His brows shot up quickly. “Oh,” he looked across the table at Sherlock, “...you have a Will.” 

Sherlock didn’t look up immediately, his eyes too busy scanning an arrest report that apparently documented one of the first times Lestrade and his team pulled Sherlock in on a drug charge. “What?” He said, and finally peeled his eyes away long enough to meet John’s gaze.

“A Will,” he held up the document, “You have a Will.” 

Sherlock’s brows shot up his forehead, “God - I’d forgotten all about that. I wonder why he’s got a copy of it in there?” 

John drew the sheets back down and scanned through them quietly. “I mean, I have a Will too, of course, but I don’t keep a copy of it with Harry. Why is it in here, what has it got to do with all of this? You’re alive, you have mental capacity… hang on, your brother’s birth name is Andrew?” He let out a throaty laugh. 

Sherlock smirked, “Yes, probably never call him that. Even our parents hate it.” 

John’s smile dropped slowly, “...Greg’s named as an Executor.” 

Sherlock’s eyes shot back up, and his face fell in sadly. “Oh…” he licked his lips. “I’d forgotten about that.” 

“Why?” John shook his head and let out a confused sigh. 

Sherlock shrugged up both shoulders, ignoring that it tweaked at the muscles along his back that seemed to have quietened down and instantly regretted the movement. “I don’t know,” he said as he rolled his shoulders, “I just never thought about it once it was done. I never really considered my death that deeply.” 

John shook his head, “No, I mean why Greg, and why is it even in here? What is Mycroft doing with a copy of your Last Will and Testament?” He held the document out to Sherlock again. 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders again, “I don’t know - you can name a second executor if the primary defaults; of course Mycroft is primary, and Lestrade was the obvious choice. It’s just a formality of will-writing. Mycroft had me see the benefit of it when I was living in my old flat. I was a different person, with a completely different lifestyle - it seemed important to write it back then.” 

John dropped the page down and clasped his hands together on the table in front of him, “Love, it isn’t the fact that you have a Will, what I don’t understand is why your brother has put a copy of it in the bloody box!” 

Sherlock cupped his left hand around the back of his neck and rubbed against the aching muscles, jarring his head back to see if it eased any tension, “...formalities, I suppose…” 

“Bollocks!” John snapped, “Why the hell does he think I need to see your Goddamned Will when we’re a week away from all of this shit?” 

Sherlock twisted his back, his discomfort increasing. “Maybe he doesn’t mean that you need to see it?” 

“Then what does he mean?” John held out his empty palms before him, “If he isn’t trying to goad me into preparing for you being dead, then what is he doing?” 

“Maybe he wants me to rewrite it, I don’t know, I can’t read his mind John.” Sherlock bit back with an edge to his tone. 

John pushed himself to his feet, needing to stretch his legs as much as walk off a little annoyance. “Your brother is tapped in the head; completely out of his goddamned mind. At least your neurosis can be blamed on years of drug use - what the hell is his excuse outside of being a total dick?” 

“You’re being a bit harsh,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. His fatigue was growing and his patience shortening. The pain in his back was not letting up and the idea of getting into bed and sleeping for a week, or longer, appealed to him greatly. 

John snorted, “Believe me, it’s an edited version of what’s going on up here.” He tapped his temple with his left index finger. 

“John, he’s insufferable, I know, but he isn’t deliberately evil. We’re safe, provided for and housed because of him.” Sherlock’s eyes followed John as he paced by the archway. “I don’t know what he’s hinting at putting it in the box - just as I didn’t know why he had Mark’s autopsy report in there. I don’t know what Mycroft’s mind does eighty percent of the time. But as much as he is often far from kind, he is not unnecessarily cruel. He isn’t trying to just get on your nerves…” 

“Then why do I feel like he’s battling against us rather than with us?” John sighed and stopped pacing. He braced his hands on the back of the closest dining chair and looked across the table to Sherlock. 

“Because we’re both tired, stressed and scared. Because we don’t trust anyone, because everything goes tits up when we relax - because Harry hurt you and you think Mycroft will deliberately hurt me, or us.” Sherlock said and inhaled deeply through his nose. 

John echoed his sigh, “Sherlock Holmes sees through everything…” 

Sherlock nodded his head slowly, “Except his brother.” He smiled sleepily at John. “Call him, maybe we can work out what’s going on and make some headway with all of this,” he swept his right hand out over the table. 

“It’s seven pm,” John said as he checked his watch. 

“So,” Sherlock curled his top lip, “Mycroft’s a vampire.” 

John chuckled deeply, “Why do I actually believe that?” 

Sherlock’s features softened. “One thing I know about Mycroft is that if I need him, he’ll come.”


	9. Chapter 9

"Can we give the floor dancing a wipe today?” Sherlock said, almost as though he were nervous of what might be his response. He clicked the lock button on his phone and laid it down on the island counter. 

John shrugged his shoulders, folding the final two shirts from within the laundry basket he had on the counter beside him, and shook his head, “It’s important, Sherlock.” 

“I know it is - but after the weekend we have one week to be ready for the start of the trials. We need to sit down, together, and finally get our heads straight with everything that Mycroft has put into that file…” Sherlock defended his reasoning. He didn’t mention he was in pain, that his back felt crampy and tight, and he didn’t mention that he felt tired to his core. “It’s important, too.” 

John lifted the pile of laundry and dropped it back into the basket now it was folded and ready to put away. “I agree that it’s important, and I agree that we need to get prepared, but not at the expense of other important things. Your health is so much more valuable to me than anything in that bloody box.” He looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. 

Sherlock drew his mouth to the side, “I appreciate the sentiment, but being on top of this information is vital and time is running out.” 

John sighed and reached both hands out, cupping them over Sherlock’s shoulders, “Okay, fine.” He leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “But first we’ll eat dinner.” 

“...dinner…” Sherlock crooked his right brow. 

John laughed, “Yes, Love. It’s the name given to a concoction, usually on a plate, of combined foodstuffs that is consumed in the evening.” 

Sherlock tried to look affronted but he couldn’t help but laugh, despite the pain in his back creeping higher and higher. “Shut up, you idiot.” 

 

They remained in the dining room after dinner - John had thrown together a pasta dish he wasn’t sure he’d be able to recreate if he tried, because he wasn’t even sure what he’d chucked into the cooking pot. It had been nice, though, and Sherlock had all but cleared his dish. With their empty bowls pushed aside, John brought the boxfile to the table and tipped it out and the two began sifting through the sheets, documents, photographs and reports that had been thrown together. 

John picked out an unopened envelope and slipped his finger under the seal to tear it open. He slipped out the folded sheets inside and opened them out. Twelve or more pages of crisp, white paper were held together by a single staple in the top left corner and the cover sheet simply said _William Holmes; LWaT_. John frowned, and lifted up the top sheet, peering at the next page. His brows shot up quickly. “Oh,” he looked across the table at Sherlock, “...you have a Will.” 

Sherlock didn’t look up immediately, his eyes too busy scanning an arrest report that apparently documented one of the first times Lestrade and his team pulled Sherlock in on a drug charge. “What?” He said, and finally peeled his eyes away long enough to meet John’s gaze.

“A Will,” he held up the document, “You have a Will.” 

Sherlock’s brows shot up his forehead, “God - I’d forgotten all about that. I wonder why he’s got a copy of it in there?” 

John drew the sheets back down and scanned through them quietly. “I mean, I have a Will too, of course, but I don’t keep a copy of it with Harry. Why is it in here, what has it got to do with all of this? You’re alive, you have mental capacity… hang on, your brother’s birth name is Andrew?” He let out a throaty laugh. 

Sherlock smirked, “Yes, probably never call him that. Even our parents hate it.” 

John’s smile dropped slowly, “...Greg’s named as an Executor.” 

Sherlock’s eyes shot back up, and his face fell in sadly. “Oh…” he licked his lips. “I’d forgotten about that.” 

“Why?” John shook his head and let out a confused sigh. 

Sherlock shrugged up both shoulders, ignoring that it tweaked at the muscles along his back that seemed to have quietened down and instantly regretted the movement. “I don’t know,” he said as he rolled his shoulders, “I just never thought about it once it was done. I never really considered my death that deeply.” 

John shook his head, “No, I mean why Greg, and why is it even in here? What is Mycroft doing with a copy of your Last Will and Testament?” He held the document out to Sherlock again. 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders again, “I don’t know - you can name a second executor if the primary defaults; of course Mycroft is primary, and Lestrade was the obvious choice. It’s just a formality of will-writing. Mycroft had me see the benefit of it when I was living in my old flat. I was a different person, with a completely different lifestyle - it seemed important to write it back then.” 

John dropped the page down and clasped his hands together on the table in front of him, “Love, it isn’t the fact that you have a Will, what I don’t understand is why your brother has put a copy of it in the bloody box!” 

Sherlock cupped his left hand around the back of his neck and rubbed against the aching muscles, jarring his head back to see if it eased any tension, “...formalities, I suppose…” 

“Bollocks!” John snapped, “Why the hell does he think I need to see your Goddamned Will when we’re a week away from all of this shit?” 

Sherlock twisted his back, his discomfort increasing. “Maybe he doesn’t mean that you need to see it?” 

“Then what does he mean?” John held out his empty palms before him, “If he isn’t trying to goad me into preparing for you being dead, then what is he doing?” 

“Maybe he wants me to rewrite it, I don’t know, I can’t read his mind John.” Sherlock bit back with an edge to his tone. 

John pushed himself to his feet, needing to stretch his legs as much as walk off a little annoyance. “Your brother is tapped in the head; completely out of his goddamned mind. At least your neurosis can be blamed on years of drug use - what the hell is his excuse outside of being a total dick?” 

“You’re being a bit harsh,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. His fatigue was growing and his patience shortening. The pain in his back was not letting up and the idea of getting into bed and sleeping for a week, or longer, appealed to him greatly. 

John snorted, “Believe me, it’s an edited version of what’s going on up here.” He tapped his temple with his left index finger. 

“John, he’s insufferable, I know, but he isn’t deliberately evil. We’re safe, provided for and housed because of him.” Sherlock’s eyes followed John as he paced by the archway. “I don’t know what he’s hinting at putting it in the box - just as I didn’t know why he had Mark’s autopsy report in there. I don’t know what Mycroft’s mind does eighty percent of the time. But as much as he is often far from kind, he is not unnecessarily cruel. He isn’t trying to just get on your nerves…” 

“Then why do I feel like he’s battling against us rather than with us?” John sighed and stopped pacing. He braced his hands on the back of the closest dining chair and looked across the table to Sherlock. 

“Because we’re both tired, stressed and scared. Because we don’t trust anyone, because everything goes tits up when we relax - because Harry hurt you and you think Mycroft will deliberately hurt me, or us.” Sherlock said and inhaled deeply through his nose. 

John echoed his sigh, “Sherlock Holmes sees through everything…” 

Sherlock nodded his head slowly, “Except his brother.” He smiled sleepily at John. “Call him, maybe we can work out what’s going on and make some headway with all of this,” he swept his right hand out over the table. 

“It’s seven pm,” John said as he checked his watch. 

“So,” Sherlock curled his top lip, “Mycroft’s a vampire.” 

John chuckled deeply, “Why do I actually believe that?” 

Sherlock’s features softened. “One thing I know about Mycroft is that if I need him, he’ll come.”


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft pushed his phone into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and left his study, ensuring he pulled the door closed tightly behind him. He moved through the quiet hallway on noisy feet until he reached the lounge. He felt the warmth and familial comfort as soon as he pushed open the door, and stepped in to see his parents sitting comfortably together on the sofa, nursing tumblers of whiskey in their hands, and they both turned their heads back to look up at the person who’d intruded on their privacy. The low lights were on along the walls, and the fire crackled pleasantly like Mycroft had seen happen many times in their family home. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Sorry-,” he said. “I have to go out, there is something I need to attend to. I’m sure I’ll be late returning, so don’t feel that you should be required to wait up for me coming back.” 

“It’s nothing you can do from your office here?” Violet asked hopefully, “I thought we were going to have a late supper together.” 

“My physical presence is required,” Mycroft clarified. “Go ahead and eat without me.” 

“That’s a shame,” Siger said honestly, “But we’re not settling down too early so perhaps we will see you later on.” 

Mycroft gave a brief nod. “Very well. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Sweetheart,” Violet called with a warm smile as Mycroft disappeared from the room. She turned to look back at her husband. “Sherlock, do you think?” 

“I couldn’t even hazard a guess.” Siger admitted plainly. 

But Violet was bothered. “He works in that home office of his for as much of his work as he can, he always wants to be on hand for Sherlock. It has to be serious, or about Sherlock, for him to willingly go into the main offices - particularly at this hour.” 

Siger set his eyes on her as warmly and fondly as he could, whilst still conveying seriousness for the words to follow. “My Love, do not sit and torture yourself around the questions you’re never going to get answers to. If it is anything to do with Sherlock and he needs to share it with us, I am sure that he will when the time is right.” 

“How can I not worry?” Violet blew out a rough sigh and gripped the glass in her hands tighter. “In just over a week our boys will be going over every old wound in that courtroom. They are vulnerable; you saw just how fragile Sherlock is after he broke down at the dinner table, Siger, how could I possibly _not worry_ about him?” 

Siger took the glass from his wife’s hands and placed both his and hers down onto the lamp table to his right.He turned back to face his wife and cupped her hands in his. “Sherlock has always been precarious. But look at where he is now - no heroin, no alcohol and not even a cigarette! Mycroft - and John - are doing wonders for him; they’re strong as a unit. We must trust them.” 

Violet’s eyes scanned her husband’s face, “I do trust them.” She said, ghostly quiet. “My trust in them is not in question. I’m just so afraid for them. What if these men pull the rug from under both of our boys? Can you honestly see Sherlock and Mikey surviving in prison? It would end their lives…” 

Siger’s brows crooked up in sympathy for her pain, “My Love, it will _not_ happen.” 

“And that’s only if nothing goes wrong prior to the trials. What if Sherlock gets sick, what if that hideous creature tries to hurt him?” 

Siger released her hands and reached up to cup her cheeks, keeping her eyes on him. “Violet, my Love, you need to calm down. If we just contemplated all of the ‘what ifs’ we would never get out of bed for fear of everything falling through the floor beneath us. We need to believe that these men will be tried fairly and found guilty in whatever capacity we can get; that Inspector Lestrade’s death finds a place of blame; that Sherlock’s pain will be acknowledged.” He arched close to her and kissed her wrinkled forehead. “Believe that we can get through it all together.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“I came here as soon as you called. I have raced through Friday evening traffic and still I am met with a greeting of a deathly expression?” Mycroft looked incredulously between his brother and John as he lingered in the walkway into the dining room. 

“John’s angry - be happy it’s just an expression you’re getting.” Sherlock pointed his right index finger toward the doctor. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “Well?” he widened his eyes, “Am I going to be let in on what was so important?” 

Sherlock took a deep breath, twisting his back without a single moment of relief. “Explain the boxfile.” He said as he released the deep breath back out again. “There are items in there that have no business being in there. Mark’s autopsy report isn’t the only thing we found,” he looked at his brother squarely. “A copy of my will, documents from Scotland Yard about my arrests, toxicology reports… what’re you playing at?” 

“I didn’t supply your Will, Sherlock. You’re alive, what use would it be?” Mycroft tutted petulantly. 

“It’s in there, Mycroft.” John gestured his hand to the table, “Along with everything else he just said. It’s all in there.” John shook his head, “It’s as though you’re gathering evidence to hang your own little brother for everything Skinner was trying to get him for. Are you really such a bastard?” 

“Are you two really this stupid?” Mycroft countered and drew his hands from his pockets. “This isn’t just a box of random ideas, it is every inch of negativity or personal life information that links you with Gregory Lestrade…” 

John’s brows rose high on his forehead whilst Sherlock’s nose crinkled in a deep frown. “Why?” he begged his brother. 

“Because paperwork is proof; and if it isn’t documented, it did not happen.” Mycroft gave a malicious smile. 

“So you’ve _stolen_ anything that is in the paper trail that the Three Stooges defence might have found? ...why?” John’s sarcasm was barely controlling his anger. 

“If they can find it then anyone can find it. If it can be found it can be used, if it can be used, it can be manipulated to make it fit their truth.” Mycroft explained, staring John down. 

John pointed to the dining table, “So every one of those are original copies.” 

“Every single one.” Mycroft nodded his head once. 

“Are you insane?” John erupted. “That’s fraud, Mycroft! Yet another bloody cover-up. Are you really so bloody stupid?” 

“I am covering nothing up, John; I’m restoring confidentiality, to Sherlock and to the deceased.” Mycroft bargained with his ever-useful tongue. 

John gave a sarcastic laugh and shook his head. He turned to look at Sherlock, digging his tongue into his cheek in disbelief. “Talk some sense into… Jesus, Sherlock…” John slipped quickly around the table as he watched Sherlock’s skin suddenly turn a sickeningly pale gray. Sherlock’s eyes rolled and he made a guttural sound before flopping forwards lifelessly in his chair. 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s face paled in concern. 

John’s fingers registered Sherlock’s pulse in his neck as he supported Sherlock’s head up and began to see Sherlock’s eyes fluttering back to life almost as soon as they’d shut down. “It’s alright, he’s okay. Sherlock, Love…” 

“What was that?” Mycroft asked, watching Sherlock’s face go from chalk-white to pale with red cheeks. 

“Vasovagal, I think…” John said, silently measuring the beats of Sherlock’s heart. “Sudden drop in blood pressure. He’s settling down - Sherlock, are you okay, Love. Can you hear me alright?” 

Sherlock blinked his eyes heavily and stretched them wide before he gave a shaky nod. “A bit lightheaded.” 

“What happened?” John questioned, keeping himself tight to Sherlock’s side for support. 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, looking sickly. “Pain....it shot hard up my back, I felt hot all over and just - I tried to move up a bit, pushed myself into the arms of the chair and tried to sit up, anything to relieve my back, and then I felt really funny…” 

“You fainted,” John explained, “It could be postural, if you were trying to change positions...or a reaction to the pain, was it worse than the usual pain you get?” he quizzed as Mycroft looked on with concern. 

Sherlock nodded his head, “A tight spasm, higher in my back than usual and then down into my left hip, the way it always goes…” he licked his lips. “I’m fine,” he looked up at his brother. 

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked him, concern evident in his tone. 

Sherlock nodded his head again, “I’m all right.” 

“I take it you’ve been in pain for a while, and were just too bloody proud to come out and tell me? What did you think I’d do, blame it on you not going through physio today, or something? Love, if you’re in pain you’ve got to let me know - there’re things we can do to help you, but I can’t do that if you’re not talking to me.” John lectured. 

Sherlock just looked at him coyly and Mycroft tutted, “Sherlock…” 

“Don’t berate me, Mycroft. You’re harbouring legal documents in my house. You’re worse!” 

“Don’t start, you two.” John put his foot down with a firm hand. “Mycroft, go into the kitchen and put the kettle on; fix him a cup of tea and something to eat. His medication is in the sink cupboard, bring that through too. There is rescue pain relief in there, it’s clearly labeled…” he bossed. “And you’re going into the lounge and you’re sitting on the couch until I’m satisfied that you’re okay and that attack was a one-off.” 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock argued, belied by his still pale face. 

“You’re not fine! This situation is not fine, none of this is fine. Stop arguing with me and just do as you’re told for once in your miserable life. Come into the lounge. And for God’s sake, _Andrew_ , make your brother a cup of bloody tea!” 

Mycroft’s face was equally hilarious and angry and Sherlock bit his lip in a half-hearted smile. “Don’t look at me, you put the copy of the Will in there…” 

“Forget that you ever -,” 

“Just shut up, Mycroft, and get him the tea, yeah?” John cut in. “You may have bought this place, but it’s my house - our house - and if you’re not going to help us, then you can leave.” 

John’s watchful eye over Sherlock lasted over the weekend. He didn't witness any further fainting spells, but he was wary of Sherlock pushing himself too far without first honestly disclosing his level of pain. Not that John totally took Sherlock's word for it, often believing him to be in more pain than he was willing to let on. He was never wrong in his assumptions.


	11. Chapter 11

\- - - - ONE WEEK UNTIL THE COURT DATE - - - -

 

“Then your understanding is _flawed_.” Mycroft’s tone hardened and the final word came as a grimace between clenched teeth. “...then _what_ do I pay you for? Well, then I suppose your services are… I see. Then do it.” Mycroft snapped the phone into the cradle and offered the object a growl. His appreciation for the low-key legal advice was thinly spread, and he was wondering what use they were at all when there still was no confirmation or advice pertaining their push for Skinner’s posthumous sentence. 

He sat back in his chair and considered calling Sherlock. But what would he say? _They’re still digging…_ , or perhaps _I still have no word…_ , or maybe his go-to message of _I’m doing what I can…_ could continue to suffice inasmuch as it had to this point - poorly. He didn’t like informing his brother and John that they were still alone on the water on this; with mere days until the first of the men, Matthew Winston, was summonsed into court, how was he supposed to cope with telling his damaged little brother that they still practically had nothing to go on? It was enough of a blow that the three accused were facing trial for small-fry - in comparison - charges; it was going to take all of John and Sherlock’s strength to sit in the arena knowing that there was no murder charge, no GBH or assault charge. Mycroft wasn’t sure he could really face the looks on their faces if the endeavour for the posthumous sentence completely dissolved into nothing. 

Matthew Winston was facing trial for money laundering, for possession of a unlicensed firearms and harbouring a criminal. Carl Potter and Adam Thomas were facing charges against them for being party to the recording - and facilitation - of the assault on Greg Lestrade. None of it seemed fitting - it had sickened Mycroft to know that Greg’s death wasn’t even being considered manslaughter, despite the medical reports that concluded his death had been caused as a direct result of his injuries. With all his power, such as he dumbed it down, Mycroft could not force the arm of the Met on this one and he assumed it was because the teams involved were as angry about Greg as they were, and blamed Sherlock for it’s happening. 

Mycroft steepled his fingers before him and rested them against his lips for a moment. Then he got to his feet, and walked swiftly from his home office. He quickly found himself in the dining room, raiding his drinks cabinet. The twelve year old single Malt had been rapidly declining in volume over the last forty-eight hours, more speedily so in the last twelve since his mother and father had returned home. He poured himself a home-measure double and held the glass between his long fingers before he brought it to his lips to save the first, buring sip. He had always known that alcohol was not the answer to any problem he might face, but denying its ability to soothe and lubricate was beyond pointless. 

As his eyes danced across the cabinet top, it occurred to him, abruptly out of nowhere, that he had not received the photograph back that Jack Skinner had swiped from his house that day he had descended up on his parents here. He had neglected to ask about its recovery and, in all honesty, had not really considered it until this moment when its presence was missed in a burst of overwhelming sentimentality. As he took another sip from his glass, he frowned into the vacant spot the picture frame had once held and recalled it in perfect detail; the not nearly bright enough summer day, the sand, the pebbles, ...Sherlock’s godforsaken pirate hat pushing his curly hair to stick out over the tops of his ears. Despite it having been a beach day trip, both boys had been in long trousers and a long-sleeved t-shirt and the colouring of the photograph had lacked the warmth of a true summer’s day with it’s grey-blue steeliness that had truly captured how chilly the day had been. Still, he smiled ever so slightly on the right side of his mouth as he recalled it, the echo of Sherlock’s laughter ringing in his ears at the delight he’d felt at Mycroft finding a crab. 

He steeled his expression quickly as the emotion began to bob into his throat, and swallowed down what remained of his drink. He set the glass down on top of the cabinet and reached into his inside jacket pocket for his mobile phone. He held it to his ear and waited. “Yes…. A car, I’ll be out in five minutes. _Do not_ be late.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“...I bet if I bent it all the way up and tipped your kneecap off your nose, you wouldn’t feel anything more than, like, your stomach was being squashed…” John somehow kept a straight face as he peered at Sherlock from his position between the former detective’s legs, whilst holding his left leg in a bend at the knee as the two occupied the lounge floor space. 

Sherlock schooled his eyes to the end of his nose, glaring at his lover comically. “Do it, and see what you get, Doctor Watson.” John’s resolve broke, and he chuckled. “...ah, that's my phone…” Sherlock said with a strain in his voice as he twisted oddly to reach up and retrieve his mobile phone; he'd dropped it down just above his head on the floor beside him. He grasped it between his fingers and looked at the screen. “It's Mycroft.”

“Ah, Andy…,” John laughed to himself and gently lowered Sherlock's leg as he answered the phone. 

“Big brother,” Sherlock spoke with a smile on his lips. John didn't like the way his smile became a frown, bunching his brows and crinkling the top of the bridge of his nose. “...no, it's okay. Yeah, he is…” he glanced at John. “Just physio,” he licked his lips. “...of course - no, it's all right…. Okay.” He drew the phone from his ear and responded to the questioning look on John’s face. “He’s on his way here; he has spoken to the legal team.” Sherlock placed the phone on the carpet and awkwardly hitched himself up on his elbows, bending very slightly at the waist. 

John didn't like the look on his face. “Right…” he coaxed. 

Sherlock frowned deeply, not that the frown had actually left his brows at all. “He sounds pissed off.” 

“Why, what else did he say?” John pushed. He sat back onto his bottom and stretched out his legs as pins and needles claimed them from twenty-some-odd minutes of being sat on. 

“Nothing - I mean, he kept making sure he wasn't intruding, but insisted still he was coming.” Sherlock's brow furrowed impossibly deeper and John could see the cogs turning in his brain, those keen eyes flicking side to side. “What if that dick of a lawyer has given up on the sentencing against Jack?” He supposed, “There are a million and one roadblocks for it, what if they've just given up pushing for it because they know that the others are sealing a preemptive defence?” 

John pulled a face, “Why would they defend a dead man? It won't help any of them.”

Sherlock lay back down and rubbed his hands across his face, sighing into his palms. “I don't know,” he whined, feeling tense. 

John pushed up onto his knees and reached forwards, gently gracing his left hand across Sherlock's middle. “Relax, Love. There's no point in getting stressed and anxious until we know what he actually has to say.” 

“I know it, though.” Sherlock said as he pulled his hands down from his face and let them fall to his sides. “He’s going to say it won't happen, that no charges can be brought against Jack, and...and I know that when the trials start, all three of them will walk with meagre sentences.” He heaved a deep sigh through his nose. “I can't deal with this…” 

John saw the glisten in Sherlock's blue eyes before he registered the hitch to his voice. “Hey, come on… Do not let them do this to you.” He said lovingly. In all of the mess of the last few months, John had barely seen tears truly ignited in Sherlock and it made his stomach sink to know that the few occasions he did were always deeply rooted in guilt and grief - and now, total fear and exhaustion.

“It is not a case of me letting them, John, they've already succeeded. That things are this way is them already having won. We get nothing…” Sherlock dug his top teeth into his bottom lip, holding it tightly. 

“We were never going to get anything - and before you shout, I know recognition for Greg would be amazing, a real service and some kind of justice but we knew going into this that there was never a promise. Mycroft never promised it would happen, he just promised he'd try. Maybe he has, maybe he hasn't - some days I haven't felt he he did enough - but it will not change that we know the truth, and that we hold Jack Skinner responsible.” John's words came honest, fast and soothing, but Sherlock's body was vibrating beneath his hands with upset. “Love, please…” 

Sherlock steeled himself with a deep inhale through his nose. He exhaled with pursed lips, trying to settle himself, as John's hand rubbed comfort-intending circles on his ribcage. “I'm fine,” he said finally, rubbing his forearm across his damp eyes. “Help me up?” He asked, feeling emptiness in his chest. “I don't want Mycroft to do it - we both know he will he when comes in.”


End file.
